


Crimson Beads

by Gem_Gem, harrylee94



Series: Bonded by Words Stories [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternative take on Vampires, Blood Drinking, Don't want to spoil story in tags, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gentle Kissing, Hard drive with story on broken, Heartbeats, Hugs, If certain tags are needed let us know, Kissing, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, On Hiatus, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sleep Deprivation, Sleeping Together, Sleepy Sherlock, Slow Build, Slow To Update, Story on Hiatus, Surprise Kissing, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-11-16 17:38:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 94,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11257683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrylee94/pseuds/harrylee94
Summary: ...the dumb blonde idiot who went to investigate the noise in the dark alleyalwaysended up dead.--The Bonded by Words Stories are co-written stories by Gem and Harry.Bonded by words forever.The only link these stories have is that they were written by us both and are of the Sherlock Fandom.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We just want to say, before you read, that we will add tags if you think they are needed, but for now they are remaining as they are.  
> We don't want to spoil the story before you've even read it. Not with this one.  
> We have spent a great deal of time and effort on this story, and given a lot of love to it. We both adore it!
> 
> The story is finished, but we need to edit it and that might take a bit, so please be patient with us. Writing and editing takes a lot of time.
> 
> We thought to post this first chapter, or prologue, now to get feedback. So please, if you are interested in reading it and enjoyed what you read here, let us know by dropping a kudos or a comment! Any questions, don't hesitate to ask them. We would both be delighted in answering them if we can and talking to you.
> 
> We appreciate all comments!
> 
> Thank you and enjoy!
> 
> *This story is not related to any others in the series it belongs to*

It had been a long time since John had last had a chance to meet up with his old school friends; most of the time he was either busy with work or running after Sherlock down London’s back streets, but tonight, he was free to do whatever the hell he wanted, and he wanted to hang out with some old friends, and get pissed. Or, not pissed exactly, but at least a little tipsy.

It was strange, seeing them all again. In some cases, he hadn’t seen them since before he was deployed to Afghanistan, and in Jack’s, not since before he’d enlisted. But that was neither here nor there; John was enjoying himself, having fun with some old friends, talking of times long past, and the occasional suggestion of starting the old rugby team back up again, despite the fact that half of them had families to look after, and the rest were too busy with work. And so, some time after one in the morning, John left the pub in high spirits, waving goodbye to the last of his old Uni mates as he headed back to Baker Street.

One of the things he loved about this pub was the close proximity it had to his flat. He spent enough money on taxis for Sherlock, and though he wouldn’t have minded spending a little more to see his friends, he would have had to be a little careful with his funds during the next few days.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, John noted the texts he’d received from his Flatmate in the past two hours since he’d looked last.

**Have you ever noticed how lethal the bread knife is? SH**

**Especially once sharpened. SH**

**I’ve broken it. SH**

**We hardly used it anyway. SH**

**The scalpel is perhaps the best all purpose blade. SH**

**If Molly calls you, ignore her. SH**

**If she texts you, ignore her. SH**

**Just ignore her. SH**

John scoffed at the messages, wondering what Sherlock had done to make Molly message him at all, and flipped through his call log just to double check that he hadn’t actually missed any phone calls from her. Nope. Well, he’d just have to ask when he got--

The sound of a bottle smashing brought John’s attention to the unlit alley beside him, causing him to a halt under a street lamp. “Hello?” Oh God, really? Hadn’t he seen enough movies to know that this was exactly _not_ what you were supposed to do?

“Is someone there?"

He was a _soldier_ for Christ’s sake! And even if he didn’t have any combat experience, he should know that the dumb blonde idiot who went to investigate the noise in the dark alley _always_ ended up dead.

He took a step into the alley. Well, he had the right hair colour. And Sherlock had been consistently telling him how much of an idiot he was.

He continued on into the alley, stepping further and further away from the safety of the main road as he searched for the source of the noise. The light buzz from the alcohol made it difficult to concentrate completely on anything, but he drew his shoulders back, readying himself for something; something he could feel was going to happen.

He reached about the mid-way point, a cluster of rubbish bins pushed up against the wall a little further along, and stopped. Ha, no. There was no way he was going to get anywhere near those. That was a prime pouncing spot, and he wasn’t going to approach it as unarmed as he was.

Taking a deep breath, John started pacing backwards, keeping an eye on the bins for several moments before turning around. Big mistake. Whoever it was who had been waiting behind the bins must have noticed his hesitance, because now they were on John’s back, hands clutching at his face and chest as they tried to grapple against him, a growl at his ear as they pulled his nose and cheek so that he exposed his neck.

“Get off!” John cried, struggling against the attacker, “Get the hell off me!”

The growl turned into a sniff, and then a moan, and suddenly John could feel teeth – _teeth_ – biting into his neck. He stiffened for a moment in shocked agony, but then he felt his blood dribbling down his shoulder.

The attacker howled in pain when John stamped on their foot, then doubled over when his elbow met their stomach, freeing John from their grasp. He had half a mind to beat the living shit out of the punk, but by the time John had turned around again, whoever it had been was running out the other end of the alley, John only catching a glimpse of their shoes, and what looked like a red beaded necklace.

Drawing his hand up to his neck, John put pressure on his wound, frowning after the mysterious figure in puzzlement for several seconds, before shaking his head and continuing on his way. When he got back to 221B, he leaned against the door after closing it behind him with a sigh.

There was a lingering, tangy and sharp smell of chemicals. A mix of what smelt like Isopropyl alcohol and bleach. It drifted down to John from the open living room door, and John didn’t realise until he looked up that Sherlock was standing there, haloed in light with a scalpel in his hand. The blade glinted and Sherlock tilted his head before taking the stairs quickly to be in front of John in a matter of seconds, frowning and leaning forward with a look of rippling concern that was smothered as soon as it had appeared.

“You’re bleeding,” he stated and reached with his free hand to tug aside John’s coat collar. Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched and then arched at the wound he found there and he glanced at John from the corner of his eyes.

John rolled his eyes at him and pushed him away, coving it up with his hand again. “And I thought you hated it when people stated the obvious.”

Sherlock blinked at him slowly, “Normally, I do. However on this occasion I thought I should, considering you’ve being rather, and quite interestingly, more idiotic than normal. I had no idea it was even possible. You never cease to surprise me,” he drawled and turned around, walking back up the stairs languidly, disappearing into the kitchen with another flashing glint of the silver blade in his hand.

John sighed again, and slowly followed after him, making his way into the bathroom instead of the kitchen where Sherlock had spent a great deal of time, judging from the mess. Once he reached his destination, John turned on the light and looked himself over in the mirror.

It was difficult to see exactly what the wound looked like, since it was still bleeding a little, but John could see from the extent of the tearing that it was possible he was going to need stitches. With a short huff, he washed his hands under the tap, and locked the door.

The fact that the wound was still bleeding was good – it meant that there would be less chance for a bacterial infection – but its location made things difficult. He’d have to have a shower if he was going to be able to clean it properly.

Stripping himself of his clothes, he stepped into shower. It stung at first, the warm spray not exactly the best thing to expose an open wound to, but that was to be expected. He just gritted his teeth and waited until the pink in the water disappeared, and then he waited a few minutes more. Once he’d stepped over to the mirror again and wiped the mist away, the wound had stopped bleeding.

Looking it over he found that his initial assessment was incorrect, and that the bite was shallower than he had anticipated, but the broken skin still looked a little too mangled for his liking. He was going to have to arrange for some blood tests. Joy.

It took him less than a minute to cover it with sterile dressings and swallow some ibuprofen, and he gathered his clothes from the floor, glaring at the blood stains as though they had personally offended him. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he stepped out into the flat once more.

Sherlock was still in the kitchen when John drifted past on his way to his bedroom, with a long line of different knives laid out over the kitchen counter at his fingertips. He had apparently cleaned and sterilised them, from whatever it was he had done with them, and was now in the process of returning them to where he’d taken them. The bread knife was indeed broken and it lay in half in the far corner, the plastic handle shattered, leaving a thin metal rod attached to the blade, which now looked ragged and intensely sharp. Sherlock barely gave John more than a glance and turned his attention back to the task at hand, returning a steak knife to the drawer with a fluid flourish of his hand and a nudge of his hip.

John added ‘bread knife’ to his mental shopping list, just under ‘antiseptic’ and the ever present ‘milk’, and made his way upstairs, dumping the bloodied clothes in the basket he kept for instances like these. He refused to think about the fact that normal people didn’t need baskets for bloodied clothes. Changing into his pyjamas, John made his way back down to the kitchen to fetch himself a glass of water.

Sherlock thrust the wanted glass of water into John’s face the moment he rounded the corner, “Did you get a look at them?” he asked suddenly and seemingly at random, turning his gaze, and therefore his attention, to John’s face.

John took a step back as he blinked in surprise, and then frowned in annoyance. “No, no I didn’t.” He took the glass. “They got me from behind, and left before I could do anything.”

“Hm.” Sherlock huffed, squinting and staring at John for longer than necessary, than was polite. But since when was Sherlock ever overly polite? “What did they smell like?”

“Smell?” John snorted, “I was…” He bit off his words, knowing it would only make his friend frustrated. “Like… like balsa wood.” He frowned, trying to remember what those fingers smelt like as they had pushed against his nose. “And vanilla, and decomposing rubbish, and blood.”

Sherlock’s head cocked as he absorbed the information, “And you can remember nothing of their clothing? Nothing at all? – Nothing of this person’s shoes, coat, or hat perhaps?”

His frown deepened as he remembered. “I think they were wearing those… trainers? And I think a red necklace. One of those bead chain things.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up at the mention of the jewellery and he pursed his mouth gently, looking to his left and then turning away completely, dismissing John and putting an end to their conversation at the same time. He moved into the living room and sat at the desk with his laptop, all attention and interest in John now gone. John wasn’t sure what he should feel from Sherlock’s apparent lack of concern for his overall well-being. Anyone else would be confused, livid or at least sympathetically vengeful. John just rolled his eyes and turned back to the stairs. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected any less really.

“See if you can get some sleep tonight,” he said as he ascended.

“Hm,” Sherlock replied distractedly.

John just huffed and finished mounting the stairs. He highly doubted Sherlock would follow his advice, but at least he’d said something. Climbing into bed, he wondered what frame of mind a person had to be in to bite someone the way he’d been bitten that night, and he couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for whoever it was. As a yawn overtook him, John decided that he could think more on it tomorrow, and allowed himself to fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We just want to warn you that not all chapters will be posted up this fast!  
> Just really lucky this one was finished and needed no more editing - Plus we had the time to dish it out.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

  _The air around him was cold and frigid, yet the hot desert sun beat down on him as he knelt over his charge, his hands pressed against the faceless soldier’s side to stop the bleeding. The red was staining his jumper and spilling onto his combat boots, and he could hear gunfire in the air._  
_“Stay with me,” he found himself saying, “You’re going to be alright, just stay with me.”_  
_A hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling his focus and hands away from the wound, and he was suddenly staring into Sherlock’s changeable eyes._  
_“It could be dangerous,” the detective said with a grin, then turned with a dramatic whirl of his coat, and disappeared over the next sand dune._  
_John blinked after him, and followed instinctively, jumping over the dune-_  
_-only to land in the alley around the corner from Baker Street. Red beads littered the floor, rolling aside when his feet came in contact with them, only to spread into a speckled mess of blood._  
_Arms encircled him from behind again, and a hand drew his head to the side. He felt teeth sink into his neck, and then the fiery pain of the bullet tearing through his shoulder, and he fell back, landing on sand as the cold sun shone down on him…_

* * *

John gasped as he woke, hand grasping at his shoulder when it twitched in phantom pain, spots encroaching on his vision. He blinked a few times then moved his hand to his neck, feeling the bandage was still there, and sighed. Damn nightmares.  
Slowly but surely, he moved himself to the edge of the bed and looked at the time. 6:21. Not long before his alarm went off. Better than he was expecting. Downing the glass of water he’d left on his bedside table, he got up and made his way downstairs.

Sherlock was standing at the window in his dressing gown and he turned as soon as John was nearing the bottom, “Jessica Campbell,” he told him, wandering around his chair to sit in it elegantly, with a rumpled spilling of blue silk. He tented his fingers under his chin and looked over at John with a very small smile, waiting for a reaction. Waiting for praise.

John blinked at him and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “It’s too early for this, Sherlock.”

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock dropped his hands only to gesture idly with one of them, “Last night. It was her. She was the one whom bit you. I’m almost certain.”

“Great,” John replied and made his way into the kitchen, “Tea?”

“She’s missing,” Sherlock continued, crossing his legs and tilting his head. “Been missing for a few days, in fact. – No history of drug abuse or any sort of mental illness. No reason whatsoever why she would randomly attack you. Apparently she’s rather quiet but pleasantly sociable.”

“Didn’t seem that way last night,” John said as he flicked the switch on the kettle, “Is she alright?”

Sherlock gave him a look as if John was purposely being obtuse just to irritate him, “She’s _missing_ ,” he repeated, talking to John like he was a child, and then got up fluidly, walking into the kitchen on bare feet. “Of course, I’m using the word ‘missing’ relatively loosely. She’s homeless, therefore has no home to speak of and has the freedom to roam wherever she pleases. Wherever she can.”

John scoffed as he dropped the tea bags into the mugs and opened the fridge to get the milk, only to remember they didn’t have any. “So you couldn’t find her then.”

John didn’t have to turn around to know Sherlock was scowling at him, “No,” he grumbled. “Although I didn’t look very hard – I set out to just find who did it, not who they were and where they were. That wasn’t asked of me. In fact, nothing was asked of me. You should be grateful I even bothered.” He flounced back to his chair, hitting John softly with the trailing ends of his gown as he turned on his heel. “Though it is curious. From how people describe her, it’s like they’re talking about a completely different person. Yet it isn’t. Because as I said, I’m almost certain it’s her. Couldn’t have been anyone else. – Jessica wore the necklace, you see. It was her mother’s. Her real, biological mother’s. Sentiment. She never took it off. I’m assuming it’s because said mother is dead. Making it a typical Hansel and Gretel story. -- Mum dies. Dad meets someone new. Dad’s mind is warped by soft curves and enticing, manipulating lips, and so kicks daughter out for whatever trivial thing the wicked stepmother accuses her of.”

Finishing off the tea, John returned to the living room and placed Sherlock's mug on the table next to his chair and sat down on his own, cupping the drink in his hands. “Do you think she took something?”

“It’s possible,” Sherlock nodded. “Just because she wasn’t known to take drugs doesn’t mean she never did.” He regarded John for a few seconds, eyeing the bandage on his throat. “And she purposely aimed for your throat? Her goal was to bite you? Nothing more?”

John shrugged. “She grabbed my face and chest, not my pockets.”

Sherlock hummed and trailed his fingers across his mouth and chin in thought, “And she said nothing? Whether it be coherent or not?”

“Unless you count growls and moans, no.”

“How did she moan? In what _way_ did she moan?”

“Um, well…” John blushed a little as he remembered. “At first it sounded a little… desperate, needy, and then it sounded like she was… getting off.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows jumped up under his fringe and then he frowned, “Renfield syndrome?” he muttered, speaking mostly to himself than to John, though he gave John a considering look.

John frowned over his mug. “You’re saying you think that she considers herself a vampire?”

“She bit you on the neck until you bled and got sexual pleasure from doing so,” Sherlock told him as an answer, shrugging loosely. “Unless, of course, the drug she had taken had some hallucinogenic properties and she thought, instead, she was doing something else. Chowing down on a pasty, perhaps? Biting into a cake? Sampling the tender textures of a steak?”

“Wonderful,” John breathed, setting his mug down. “She might have bitten others before me then if that’s the case.” He rubbed a hand across the bandage. “Sounds like I’ll definitely be going into the clinic today after all.”

“There have been no other incidents. I checked. You are the first one she has attacked this way,” Sherlock said, finally picking up his mug to take a slow sip.

“Still, I’d better get a blood test, just in case,” John said, rising from his seat, only to wobble woozily, “Damn it.”

Sherlock frowned in instant reaction and got up with him, putting his mug down and dragging John close to peel the bandage back with one hand and peek in at the wound. His other shifted to check the glands under John’s chin and neck deftly, pressing with a clinically precise kind of touch. He was gentle and considerate and inspecting, yet his expression seemed void of any emotion.

John let him examine the bite, breathing calmly to regain his equilibrium. “How is it?”

“A little red,” Sherlock murmured, running one light fingertip over it with a quick swipe. The touch sent John’s nerve endings tingling sharply. “Slight swelling. Bruising.”

“Shit,” John muttered, moving to look at it in the mirror, only to lean against the mantelpiece when the dizziness returned. He took several steadying breaths then looked at his neck. It was exactly as Sherlock had described it; a little red, a little swollen, and there was a dark bruise blooming around it. He lifted his fingers up to touch it and hissed when it flared up in pain, but he was more worried about how hot it felt.

“I have an infection,” he sighed, poking at the bite and sighing in relief when there was no puss or liquid forthcoming.

Sherlock moved to pick up his mug again, “You can’t say you’re surprised by this?” he snorted. “You were bitten by a homeless girl down a filthy, rubbish filled alleyway.”

John just sent him a half-hearted glare and returned to examining the wound for a few more moments. He wasn’t really surprised, but it was still something he wished wasn’t true. He’d probably have to give Sarah a ring so he could get a proper appointment. As much as he would prefer to, John knew he wouldn’t be able to treat himself.

“Should have bought more antiseptic,” he muttered to himself as he sat back down again, picking up his tea.

“Should have continued walking,” Sherlock said in a low mumble, peeking at him from his lashes as he finished his tea in several deep gulps. “Shoulda Woulda Coulda.”

John rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s happened now, and I need to sort out the mess I’ve managed to make for myself.”

“I blame your hero complex,” Sherlock continued as he walked to take out his violin, adjusting the strings absentmindedly with a twist of his wrist, eyes on John the entire time. “You should really look into suppressing that.”

John scoffed. “If I didn’t have a ‘hero complex’, I would never have saved your life from that cabbie.”

Sherlock conceded to the point with a short inclination of his head and a twitch of his mouth, “I had it all under control,” he went on with another look at John, before he lifted the violin, tucked it under his chin with a soft breath, and twirled the bow with an ostentatious flick. “Let’s hope you don’t have hepatitis.”

“There’s a very low chance of that,” John replied, taking a sip of his tea, then screwing his nose up in disgust. It never tasted right without milk, but that was just _wrong_. He set the mug down again and sighed. “I suppose I’d better head off then.”

Sherlock’s response was a long, smooth and rolling few notes, and he turned his back on John, looking out of the window as he played a lulling sort of melody, that cascaded and then built up in an ebb and flow of pleasantly ringing chords. John just smirked and slowly made his way back upstairs to change.  
He found that his alarm was going off when he reached his room, and he quickly turned it off before reaching for his phone. One quick search in his contacts and he held it up to his ear, listening to the tone.

“Good morning, John,” Sarah chirped after the third ring. “Should I be worried?”

“Hey, Sarah,” John replied, wincing slightly, “I’m going to need an appointment.”

“I ask again, should I be worried?” she laughed shortly. “Everything all right? – Is Sherlock to blame for this injury?”

“Not this time,” John chuckled in return, “This time it’s because of my own stupidity. I got myself bitten last night on my way home from the pub.”

“…Bitten?” she huffed in surprise with another slight titter of laughter at the end of the word. “Goodness, really? – Dog?”

“Uh, woman, actually,” John winced again, “And no, it wasn’t like that. She sneaked up on me from behind and bit me on the neck. Sherlock thinks she might have Renfield Syndrome.”

“Uh. Right. Okay. Well, yes, you should definitely come and see me,” Sarah told him. “Good thing you rang so early. Earlier the better—Hm. What time is it now? – Right. How about I meet you at the clinic in ten to twenty minutes or so? You can be my first patient.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you in twenty then,” John replied with a relieved smile.

“See you then,” Sarah responded with a cheery tone, despite the reason for their meeting.

John hung up and dumped the phone on his bed, staring at it for a few moments and then moving to change. He still got dizzy every so often, but he managed well enough, and after replacing the bandage in the bathroom and picking up his belongings, he left the flat and caught a taxi to the clinic. There was no chance he was going to risk walking there with the way things were going.  
He arrived in good time, reaching Sarah’s door just over a minute before he said he would, and raised his hand to knock.

“Come in,” she called out after the first tap of knuckles, smiling at him from her seat in front of her desk. She had her hair pinned back into a stylish, twisting ponytail and was wearing a new suit that clung attractively to the shape of her shoulders and waist. Not that he’d been looking, of course. “So, bitten by a random woman on the streets, huh? – Not exactly common but also not as uncommon as you might think. Sit yourself down and let’s have a look.”

John smirked at the joke and took the seat opposite her, pulling at the bandage. "It's not exactly pretty," John replied, still smiling.

Sarah shifted closer to him, leaning over to uncover and inspect it, “Ouch,” she hissed with sympathy, glancing at his face briefly. “Thankfully not the worst bite I’ve seen though – Hm. Faintly swollen. Warm. Painful as well, I’d imagine? No pus though?” She waited for him to shake his head slightly in answer and then hummed, touching his forehead. “It doesn’t feel like you have a fever. Your glands are fine…” She moved to check his temperature with a digital ear thermometer just to double check and nodded at the result, happy with it.

“I don’t know how much blood I lost, but after making tea this morning I started getting dizzy every time I stood up or moved too fast,” John disclosed.

Sarah frowned softly in slight worry and preceded to check his blood pressure in response, “How long do these dizzy spells last for?” she asked him as she turned her gaze to the reading with a tilted head. “Any nausea? Blurred vision?”

“Just a few seconds, and yes, a bit blurred, but no nausea,” John confirmed, then sighed, “I know this might have been avoided, but we had no antiseptic in the house, and it was one in the morning. Not much I could have done.”

“It’s okay, John.” she told him with a rub of his arm. “You weren’t to know you’d be mauled by a random stranger – Right, so, your blood pressure is a bit low, not too much though. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what you can do to rectify that, it’s always a bit odd giving medical advice to a doctor!—Okay, you’ll need blood tests. Definitely. We can take the blood now if you feel up to it, but with your low blood pressure, I’m unsure if that would be wise. Yet, we do need to check because of the infection.” Sarah leaned on her desk and let out a small breath with a smile. “Normally I’d ask if there was anyone who could come pick you up, make sure you’re all right and to keep an eye on you, but I doubt Sherlock would be interested in doing that?”

John scoffed. “The world will end before that happens.” He rubbed absently at his neck and considered whether or not to go through with the blood test. It wouldn’t be more than a few vials of blood, and it was easy enough to get a taxi from outside the clinic. Plus, they needed to know what the infection was so they could treat it properly.

“I can catch a taxi,” he said in the end, rolling up his sleeve, “I doubt drawing enough blood for the test will change much. I’ll just add more salt and fluids to my diet for the next couple of days.” He frowned. “I might have to take some time off for a bit.”

“Certainly,” Sarah nodded in agreement as she got up and rummaged around her office a moment. “I have to say though, if you feel worse for wear after this blood test, I may have to sternly insist that you to park your backside here for a bit. I don’t really feel comfortable sending you out all wonky. Even if you catch a taxi, I don’t want you fainting in or out of it. Can’t completely trust those London cabbies, now can you?” She smiled at him cheekily and checked the time. “And let’s see if we can’t get the results back today, so we can quickly treat you, hm?”

John gave her a thankful smile and nodded. “Thanks but I’ll be fine. I really think it’s best I head home in the meantime. I don’t want to get in anyone’s way. Plus I know what it’s like waiting for something with nothing to do.”  
Doubly so with Sherlock’s moans of being bored sprouting up every other day.

“I’d rather you stay here, John,” Sarah told him as she tugged on some latex gloves and ripped open the packaging holding the syringe. “You won’t be in the way. You can rest in the staff room.”

John sighed and nodded again, already dreading the long wait that was to come. “Alright then. Might as well get some paperwork done while I’m at it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Sarah swabbed the inside of his elbow gently, attached a tight tourniquet to his upper arm, tapped the thin, delicate skin a little, and moved in close, “Ready?” she asked seconds before she inserted the needle with a practiced and professional hand. “Would you like a lollipop after this?” She smirked at him lightly, drawing out a vial of blood.

“Ha ha,” John droned, though he continued to grin as he watched her work. Once she’d finished, he held a cotton swab against the puncture wound to allow her to finish labelling and packaging the vial. “Do you know if they still have those Dan Brown books in the staff room?”

“Yes. And yes,” she giggled, handing him a plaster littered with small cartoon cats with a glint her eyes. “They should be still there. Not many people read the books. Not now there’s a TV and Wifi.”

“I get enough daytime television at home,” John replied as he scowled at the plaster, “Very funny.”

Holding up her hands, Sarah giggled again, “They’re the only ones I have on hand. I promise. – Anyway, what’s wrong with cute little cartoon kittens?”

“Uh, they’re cute?” he replied with a raised brow, but just stuck it over the puncture and pulled his sleeve back down; wasn’t like anyone was going to see it anyway. “I don’t suppose you could spare some antibiotics could you? Better late than never, right?”

“As soon as we get the results back, which honestly won’t take long as I’ll be putting in a word to speed the process along, then yes, I’ll prescribe some antibiotics. The strength depends on the infection, of course. – Now, off with you! Have fun reading your books in the staff room,” she said with a soft smile. “This won’t take long. Barely an hour.”

John smiled at that and slowly rose from the chair, careful not to move too quickly. Luckily he had managed it without bringing another wave of dizziness and gave Sarah another nod. “I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”

“You sure you don’t want to take a lolly?” She asked him just before he left, motioning to a jar of them at her desk. “For Sherlock maybe?”

John tried to imagine it for a moment, his face as he sucked on a fizzler, or chewed on a drumstick, but then shook his head. “Maybe not. I’ll see you in an hour Sarah.” With that he exited her office and headed down the corridor towards his own.

Once he’d retrieved two of the folders from his filing cabinet – the two he knew he had to update from his notes – he made for the staff room and settled in for the morning. It didn’t take him very long to finish filling out the necessary forms and documentations, and he ended up picking one of the books from the coffee table, along with some water and biscuits. Digital Fortress certainly wasn’t something Sherlock would appreciate lying around the house, and John had no doubt he would burn it if he ever got his hands on a copy, but it was thrilling and suspense-filled enough to keep him entertained until Sarah arrived, about fifty minutes after he’d last seen her.

“Right,” she started with a friendly smile, walking to his side, “it’s just a small infection. Nothing serious. At all. No HIV or anything of the sort, which I’m sure, is a huge relief. So I’ve written you a prescription for some antibiotics. – If there is any change, however, you know you’ll need to see me again.” She gave over the piece of paper and sighed happily. “I’ve also got you covered for a few days while you recover.”

John accepted the prescription with a smile. “Thanks Sarah. I’ll let you know if anything happens.”

“You’re welcome,” she nodded and brandished a lolly, tucking it into his shirt pocket with a wink.

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t touch it, dropping the book on the table as he stood. “See you in a couple of days then,” he said as he made his way out the door.

“Take care!” Sarah called out behind him with a jaunty wave. “Try not to get bitten again!”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” John grinned as he waved back at her.

Before heading out again, he stopped off at his office to drop off the files, and then made his way to the pharmacy attached to the clinic to pick up the antibiotics he’d been prescribed. It didn’t take long, but it was relieving to know he had the right treatment for his bite now. He hadn’t covered it up since showing it to Sarah, and he knew he didn’t have much in the way of bandages left at the flat, but was pleased to note that she’d added bandages to the prescription. He also picked up some more antiseptic cream while he was there, just in case.  
Once that was done, and the paper bag containing his treatment was safely tucked under his arm, John hailed a cab and made his way back to the flat.

Sherlock was slumped lazily in his chair in the living room when John arrived and he gave John a slow glance, a petulant frown on his face while his eyes wandered quickly over him, “And you didn’t even remember to get the milk,” he huffed.

John just rolled his eyes and set the bag on the kitchen table. “I wasn’t going to stop off at Tesco when walking for too long makes me dizzy, was I?” He pulled out the pills and cream Sarah had prescribed and poured himself a glass of water. “I’m taking a few days off work.”

“Good,” Sherlock murmured in response, looking away from him and stretching out his legs with a wriggle of his toes.

“That includes cases,” John insisted, swallowing two of the pills with a gulp of water.

Sherlock scowled offhandedly, “You’re not invalid. It’s just a bite. A bite with a minor infection that should easily be countered by the antibiotics you are currently taking,” he rumbled. “You’ve had worse in the way of colds than this inconsequential incident.”

“Yes, well, those colds didn’t leave me seeing stars every time I stood up,” John retorted, unboxing the cream and reading the instructions carefully, “I won’t be much help right now with my blood pressure the way it is. It takes time for things like that to return to normal.”

“You can’t be _that_ dizzy,” Sherlock scoffed. “You seem perfectly fine to me.”

"That's because I'm standing still,” he muttered, moving slowly over to the mirror, blinking a few times to fight off the spots. He examined the bite again, then squeezed some of the cream onto his finger and started rubbing it into the skin around and in the bite, hissing slightly as he pressed too hard on the bruising.

Sherlock was up and standing close behind him in that moment, eyes on the mark, “You’re fine,” he told him. “And you’ll probably be more than that tomorrow. The infection is minimal.” He watched John lather it in cream and then looked up to gaze at John’s face in the reflection of the mirror. It was at that moment where he reached for the lolly in John’s pocket and arched his eyebrow, taking it out with a look of mild amusement.

“That might be the case, but until then, it doesn’t hurt to use caution,” John replied, screwing the cap back on the tube and looking over the wound again. It did look much better now than it had earlier, but that was probably the healthy amount of cream he’d just rubbed into it. He was still a little dizzy though. “I think Chinese might be a good idea tonight,” he muttered, thinking about the high content of salt in the soy sauce.

“Fine,” Sherlock muttered, turning away to slump back down in his chair, arms dangling off the sides once he’d unwrapped the lolly and popped it into his mouth.

John smirked at the typical Sherlockian behaviour and made his way back into the kitchen to gather his purchases. As he started making his way towards the bathroom to drop the supplies with the rest of the medical equipment, a violent wave of nausea hit him, and he stumbled against the wall, covering his mouth as he breathed through his nose.

“John?” Sherlock called.

He took another deep breath and opened his mouth to reply, but then the nausea surged once more, and he made a dash for the toilet, leaving the medication in the hallway. He landed by the porcelain seat moments before he finally heaved. The horrid sound echoed back at him as he emptied his stomach, and he clenched his eyes shut, grasping the edge of the toilet seat so hard that the edge dug into his fingers. He hated being sick. As he was sure everyone did. The lingering taste of bile at the back of the throat and the smell clinging to breath or trapped in the back of the nose, it was always so horrendous.

Sherlock appeared behind him after several seconds with a patter of bare feet and placed a warm hand to John’s tensing back, “All right, so perhaps you _are_ that dizzy,” he murmured lightly, curling his other hand around John’s forehead to check temperature, and to sooth.

John moaned in response as he felt the nausea subside, and stared at the pieces of semi-digested biscuit and the tablets floating in the water, spitting a foul taste from his mouth. Wonderful.

Pulling John back, Sherlock flushed the toilet and then crouched down to him, turning John’s head so he faced Sherlock properly. He checked John’s glands again, still touching his forehead, and peered into John’s eyes with intense scrutiny. When he straightened up he held out his hand to help John to his feet, keeping him stabilised with strong arms, and walked him out of the bathroom and back into the living room, putting him down in his chair. Giving John an annoyed look Sherlock strolled back for the medication, fetched a tall glass of water, and walked to hold both the pills and the glass out to John.

John took a few more breaths and swallowed the pills, ignoring the soreness of his throat from when the previous ones had come up again, and drained the glass, nodding to Sherlock in thanks. “That was unpleasant,” he said, rubbing at his mouth with a tissue from the table.

Humming Sherlock eyed him somewhat cautiously and then checked the time as he went back to his own seat, “Those biscuits from the staff room are rather vile,” he said with a very faint quirk from the corner of his mouth.

John chuckled lightly and nodded. “It’s only ever the value pack sort.”

“Cheapskates.”

The chuckle turned into a laugh, but then John moaned as it upset his stomach further. “I hope things settle by dinner, or I’ll never be able to keep anything down.”

“I’m sure we can sort something out,” Sherlock told him dismissively with an extravagant wave of his hand, reaching out to turn the TV on with a sniff and flicking through the channels at his preferred rapid speed.

John hummed in what he hoped sounded like agreement, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes, focusing on the soothing feeling of air passing in and out of his lungs, rather than the way his stomach was still rocking. Why did he have to go into that alley? Why couldn’t he have just let things be? If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be feeling so nauseatingly awful. Should he message Sarah about this? It was probably a good idea, considering she thought he didn’t have any nausea. He reached into his pocket for his phone and looked at it blearily, typing in a quick message to her.

**Add nausea to the list of symptoms. – JW**

**Make sure to drink plenty of water and let me know how you are tomorrow! Sarah xx**

**Will do. – JW**

John sighed and dropped the phone on the table next to his empty glass, leaning his head back against the chair again and focussing on his breathing.

The rest of the morning continued in much the same fashion; John remained silent in his chair, either reading the newspaper or working on his blog, occasionally getting up to fetch himself some more water, or something to eat. He would have tried for a cheese sandwich, but he wasn’t sure if Sherlock’s latest experiment had dripped on it or not, so he decided not to risk it.

By the time evening had rolled around, and John’s stomach cried for a full meal, he had successfully managed to walk back and forth between the kitchen and the living room without toppling over a grand total of six times, much to Sherlock’s annoyance. His trip to the bathroom was somewhat less successful, but he needed to empty his bladder, and the bite needed re-bandaging.

John picked up the menu for Sherlock’s favourite Chinese take away – though he didn’t really need to – and waved it at his flat mate. “Same as usual?”

Sherlock barely inclined his head, his attention on the TV screen and the raving man that was Jeremy Kyle. Sherlock had been shouting back at almost everything the host had said, scoffing and predicting, quite correctly, each and every DNA and polygraph test for the last ten minutes or so. He did the same thing to other shows. Crime shows, detective dramas, talk shows, they all got the same treatment. Sherlock was passionate and expressive and childish, surprising and amazing, and then annoying as he shot John with continuous deductions and arguments.

John just hummed and phoned up the familiar number. It took less than two minutes to place the order; the take-away already accustomed to them, and John stood once the call was over to turn on the light. Carefully making his way back over to the mirror again, he pulled the bandage off his neck and examined the bite again. Only…No, that couldn’t be right.

“What the hell?”

With a quick glance, Sherlock arched one of his eyebrows in question, dropping his head on the back of his chair, “Problem?”

John ran a finger over his neck and swallowed. There was a red ring, surrounded by dark bruises, but the bite was gone. No broken skin, no healing scabs, just whole, smooth, red skin. He leaned closer to the mirror, just to double check that what he was seeing was real, then ran his fingers over it again.

“Impossible,” he muttered, unable to look away.

Sherlock groused with a low mutter, pushing himself up, and shuffled over with a loud sigh of grievance. Although his attention was fixed and intense, giving away his interest and underlying apprehension. He paused when he was a few steps away and went instantly taut at the sight, and then lunged forward with a furrowed brow, yanking the collar of John’s shirt aside to expose more of his throat. He ran his gaze over it and reached up to touch, completely stunned. He rubbed, pressed, lightly scratched, and smoothed the entire length of his fingers over John’s neck, searching with no avail for the wound.

John flinched at the sudden touch, but allowed Sherlock his study as he tried to come up with possible reasons for the unprecedented speed with which the wound had healed and came up blank. A bite like that should have at least taken a couple of days to close, and yet here it was, less than a day later, almost completely healed.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered.

Sherlock’s furrowed brow only got deeper the longer he inspected John’s skin, and after another few moments of staring and touching, he stepped back, lifting both of his hands either side of his head as it twitched from side to side, his eyes flitting. He was in his mind palace it seemed. In his mind palace searching through any and all stored data. He turned from John as his hands pushed up into his hair and gripped, muttering to himself.

John blinked at his reflection for a few seconds, then turned to manoeuvre Sherlock into his chair. He knew better than to disturb his friend when he was in this state, and he hoped that there was something Sherlock knew that would explain this… thing, but it was probably better for him to be sitting down.  
Taking a deep breath, John made his way to the kitchen and put the kettle on, hands moving in well-practiced movements to set out the mugs and tea bags, the routine doing wonders to settle his nerves. Once the water had boiled, he poured, stirred, and set the tea bags aside, dropping the required amount of sugar in Sherlock’s before heading back into the living room.

“Boost in metabolism…” Sherlock mumbled through his teeth, appearing to swipe the thought closer. He tilted his head aside as he tried to grapple with what looked like a bombardment of thoughts, judging from his trembling eyes and mouth.

John frowned at the phrase, trying to place it with how he was feeling. Yes, he was hungry, but no more so than usual. In fact, he was feeling decidedly less hungry than he should have, considering he’d thrown up earlier, but it wouldn’t explain the sudden speed of his recovery. He sipped at his tea, and almost spat it back out again. Right, no milk.

With a put upon sigh, he went back to the kitchen and poured it down the drain, washing the mug out and refilling it with water instead. He was just about to sit down again when the doorbell rang twice in quick succession.  
Thank God, food. Reaching for his wallet, he made his way down the stairs, stopping every so often to keep the dizziness at bay (though not as often as before). When he opened the door, the delivery boy held out a plastic bag for him, and John gave him his payment with a smile.

“Mice genetically altered to produce LIN28A.” Sherlock was murmuring to himself, looking frustrated and almost frantic once John returned to the living room. “Tissue regeneration. Increased subjects' metabolic rate, evidently triggering the body to heal at higher rates. Effects of Lin28A activation fades with age—Useless!” He jerked his head aside and then flickered his fingers before his face, eyes jumping and flitting precipitously.

John frowned at him in worry, setting the bag on the table by the sofa before making his way into the kitchen to collect some forks and to set Sherlock’s meal in the microwave, just in case.  
Coming back to the living room, he turned off the TV and settled on the sofa, opening his food and scarfing down a large forkful, being careful not to send the extra soy-sauce he requested flying from the noodles.

Sherlock emerged from himself two hours later, looking haggard and overly antsy, slumping back in his chair and rubbing his mouth, and brow with his hands. He stared over at John silently. He was very slightly shaking, eyes wide and face increasingly pallid, and he looked at John as if he was someone else or perhaps something else. A question without a solution.

It took a moment for John to fully realise that Sherlock had returned, but when he did, he immediately straightened. “Anything?”

Sherlock didn’t respond and merely continued to stare, massaging his temples and squinting, looking disoriented and distraught and fearful. John frowned in return, then fetched a glass of water and held it out to him.

Slowly, Sherlock glanced up at him, “I need a sample,” he intoned.

John lowered the glass and sighed. “Right...”

Sherlock surged unexpectedly to his feet, taking hold of John’s wrist. He led John into the kitchen and then rummaged around the cupboards, knocking things noisily aside. When he turned back to John he was holding a syringe, his microscope, and several glass slides. He set things up wordlessly and then snagged for John’s arm, pushing up his sleeve with quivering, rigid fingers. He was rough and frantic, pulling on John harder than he needed to.

John winced when it revealed the cartoon kitten plaster. “Sherlock!” he cried, pulling his arm away.

“Don’t be an idiot!” Sherlock snapped with a snarl. “Give me your arm, John. Now.”

He huffed and stalled for a few moments before holding his arm out again. As much as he hated it when Sherlock proceeded to do things without asking, he hated what he could see in his eyes more. It wasn’t every day Sherlock Holmes was scared.

Sherlock tore the plaster off and threw it to the floor, eyed the unmarred skin of John’s elbow with a twitch of his eye, and then made a makeshift tourniquet with some tubing before he took out the syringe. He held it in his fingers for a few seconds, staring at the sharp point of it as it quivered in his grasp, and then took hold of John’s arm once he’d steadied his hands. Sherlock was just as efficient as Sarah had been and the needle glided into John’s arm effortlessly. John’s fingers twitched slightly at the sharp pinch, but otherwise he remained still, watching Sherlock as he drew the blood. He could feel his pulse rising as his worries and fears began to surface again. What was happening to him? Not only had the bite all but disappeared, but the needle mark too? This wasn’t making any sense.

When he had what he wanted Sherlock turned from John and pushed out several blobs of blood onto five to ten glass slides, “Go sit down,” he said idly.

John just nodded solemnly and moved back to his chair, covering his eyes with his hand as he leaned against the chair’s arm. After calming himself down, he pulled his sleeve further up his arm and looked at the new puncture wound. There was a dribble of blood leading from his inner elbow, but all that was left of the hole was a small pinprick, which seemed to close up before his eyes. He made a shocked grunting noise, pulling it closer to his face and pulling at the skin with his thumb and finger, but it remained unblemished.  
Sherlock seemed ignorant to John, either purposely or not, John wasn’t exactly sure. He worked with the blood samples, bending over his microscope and remaining silent, his mouth pressed into a tight, thin line and his fingers restlessly shifting on dials and slides.

Taking a moment to calm down again, John made his way back into the kitchen and washed off the blood. “Sherlock?” There was no response. Sherlock simply squinted through the eyepiece at the sample, zooming in and out of it. John tried again. “Sherlock.” He took a step closer as he dried off his arm, “It… it’s gone.”

Sherlock frowned but then looked at him, lowering his eyes to John’s unmarked arm. There was a flicker of something over Sherlock’s expression and eyes, though it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. His jaw clenched, fingers jerking where they lightly held onto the microscope, and he turned his head away sluggishly. John gulped at the reaction and looked down at his arm again. Still impossible. Still true. His life had been so simple yesterday.

He left Sherlock to study his blood, hoping something would come of it, while also hoping he had just fallen asleep in his chair in the afternoon sun. Looking at the time, he decided sleep wasn’t that bad an idea. Perhaps a clear head would make more sense of this.

“Food’s in the microwave,” John said as he made his way out and to the stairs.

“Tell no one,” Sherlock replied with a stoic and emotionless voice.

John paused on the bottom step and turned back to the kitchen. “Not a soul.”

Sherlock glanced up at him and seemed fleetingly worried, his eyebrows bunching softly, but then he looked away without another word, hiding his face from John. John watched him for a few more seconds, swallowing his fear as Sherlock continued to work, then headed up the stairs.  
As he lay down to go to sleep that night, he stared up at the ceiling, and wondered, hoped, that this change was only temporary.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke, of all things, to the sound of ice cubes, Sherlock’s grunts, and the undeniable reek of rotting flesh, hidden under a layer of balsa wood and vanilla. He groaned, wrinkling his nose as he covered his face with his pillow. Though the fabric didn’t completely block out the smell, it certainly helped mask it. However, his curiosity had been peeked now, and unable to slip back to sleep he slowly, blearily, opened his eyes.

For several moments, he didn’t know what he was looking at, but then he realised that it was his ceiling. Had it always looked so… cracked? Another grunt caught his attention, and John looked over towards the door. Was Sherlock dumping body parts outside of his door or something? With a moan of annoyance, John heaved himself out of bed and moved to the door.

“Sherlock, I swear, if you’re—" He blinked at the empty stairway, careful to breathe through his mouth, as the smell of decomposition was much stronger now. Moving down the stairs, he checked in the living room and the kitchen, only to find them both empty. The sound of ice reappeared once more from further down the hallway, and John followed it into the bathroom, and froze.

Sherlock was dumping bags full of ice into the bath, surrounding a very dead and very naked female body. Her filthy and tattered clothes were piled haphazardly onto the toilet lid, and on top of them was something that made John’s breath stutter. A red beaded necklace.

Sherlock had latex gloves on with his sleeves rolled up and was sweating slightly at the temples, something which plastered his fringe to his brow in wet, slick ringlets and spoke volumes of the effort and strain he’d endured. The slicked curls brought John’s attention to the dark circles around Sherlock’s eyelids and the hollow look in his eyes as he worked. He didn’t notice John at first and continued to pour more and more ice into the tub, but he soon turned at a different angle when he reached for something and paused, eyes locked onto John’s form in the doorway. He didn’t look sheepish or even that shocked, though he did straighten his spine and look down his nose at him.

John stared at the body in slowly dawning horror. “Sh-Sherlock?”

“I found her,” Sherlock intoned with one brief gesture toward the body, going back to what he was doing beforehand and reaching for a syringe, scissors, scalpel, a collection of vials and his small magnifying glass.

John nodded absently, bringing a hand up to pinch his nose so he wouldn’t have to smell the foul stench that drowned him. “Dead?”

“You think I killed her?” Sherlock mumbled with a low scoff as he knelt down beside the bath. His mouth quirked awkwardly and he leaned over, grabbing a pale and limp arm, drawing blood. He was careful and tender, yet his actions were also rather detached.

John sighed in relief. “No, no I just… God, how can you stand that?”

“This isn’t my first dead body. Nor is it yours,” Sherlock replied, peeking back at John and then frowning. “There is hardly much of an odour.”

“It reeks!” John exclaimed, “I could smell it up in my room!” He winced slightly, bringing a hand up to his ear as it suddenly started ringing.

Sherlock’s frown deepened, “What is it?”

He wobbled a finger in his ear, popping the eardrum and stopping the ringing. “Nothing. Ears went funny...”

Taking several pulls of blood from the girl, from the corpse, Sherlock then moved in to clip away some of her hair, check underneath her fingernails, inspect her mouth whilst taking subtle swabs of her tongue, and then scrutinised her nose, and ears. The smell of her had thickly invaded the entire bathroom by the time Sherlock had a small mountain of samples, and with some of her hair cut away, John had a clear view of her glassy and fixed eyes. Much as all eyes did in death, they had lost their pigmentation and had faded to a light blue, almost grey colour. A thin crust was sitting atop them, and the muscles had relaxed within them. And yet… And yet all he could see was hurt, fear, sorrow…

Blinking, John looked away and watched as Sherlock collected his samples and stepped back to make his way to the kitchen. John followed behind quickly, happy with the change of location, and eyed Sherlock as he changed his latex gloves for a new pair with a loud echoing snap and set about dotting new slides with Jessica’s blood, sliding them under the microscope without a word to John. He breathed steadily, his hands stable and deft as they worked on the dials, and he barely blinked as he went between other slides.

“Please tell me you didn’t just bring a body off the street into our home,” John sighed from his place behind the man.

“All right. I won’t,” Sherlock retorted quickly but dryly.

“Sherlock!” John cried, exasperated, only to groan in annoyance when his ears popped again. “The next time Lestrade steps in here he’s going to arrest us for murdering that poor girl!”

Sherlock turned to suddenly glower at him, “Are you intentionally being this moronic?” he spat. “I sure hope it’s intentional. Or perhaps it’s a joke? A poor excuse for one I might add. Because if you really think I’m just going to leave her there for anyone to stumble across, or that I’m going to allow anyone to find out about any of this, then I’ve got to wonder if this… _thing_ has changed more than your ability to heal.” He gripped the table and let out a loud, gush of breath through his nose. “Go. Go back to your room. Take your antibiotics. And stay out of my way.”

“It doesn’t matter if you get rid of her or not! She’s already stinking up the place. I doubt anything less than an entire swimming pool full of disinfectant could get rid of it now, and that would only make him more suspicious!” John replied, deciding to ignore his complaining eardrums.

“There is no smell!” Sherlock snapped stridently in reply with a growl of frustration. “There’s no smell, John. _None_. I don’t know what it is that you smell, because it’s not her. Do you honestly think I’d bring a strongly putrid corpse into the flat? _Really_? – You don’t think I’ve planned this all? You really don’t think that I’ve made sure we won’t be found out? That you’re safe?” He clenched his jaw, gritted his teeth, and then glared at him. “There is _no_ smell. No one but you and I will ever know she was here. She will merely be forgotten, like thousands of other homeless people before her.”

John blinked at him, shocked at how little anyone cared about the poor girl, but what came out of his mouth was; “You can’t smell it?”

“There is a hint. Barely,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “But it’s not cloying. It’s not anything to complain about.”

He frowned, releasing his nose and taking a shallow breath. He almost gagged. “Are you serious?” he demanded with a hiss, covering his nose again and rubbing at his ear to stop the almost constant ringing. “It smells foul in here.”

“No.” Sherlock told him, looking immensely irritated for a moment before his expression shifted and he sniffed the air. “I can’t smell her. Not from here.”

John hummed, mumbling something about being around dead bodies too much and strode through the kitchen to one of the windows in the living room, and pushed it open.

Horns. Children screaming in delight. A laugh. Footsteps. The click of lights. Cigarette smoke. Lilies. Roses. A bird cawing. A cough. Blinding light. Mud. Car fumes. Engines. Perfume. Droplets of water on leaves. The crunching of bread. Sugar. Laughter. Too much. **_Too much._ TOO MUCH.**

“John!” Sherlock shouted from somewhere in the distance amongst the thundering cacophony of noise. There was a slam of the window being closed - a deafening, shuddering slam - and then Sherlock’s latex covered hands gripped him, hauling him back and around. “John?”

He moaned and brought his head down, tightening the grip he had around his ears. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

Instead of taking John to the bathroom where the dead body rested, Sherlock dragged him back into the kitchen and pressed him over the sink, keeping him there with a hand between his shoulder blades. The sink smelt like washing up liquid and bleach. It wasn’t nice, but it was better than the bathroom and… whatever _that_ had been, so he just breathed slowly, swallowing down the bile that had risen to the back of his throat, and reached for one of the mugs on the side so he could get a glass of water.

As soon as he twisted the tap, it turned into a bad idea. The sound of rushing water was almost like a hurricane as it landed in the mug, and he turned the tap off almost as soon as it started, dropping the mug in the sink with a booming clatter that had him clutching at his head again.

Sherlock was stationary by his side and gave a brief touch to John’s nape, turning him around toward him and caging John’s face between his hands, “Look at me, John. _Focus_ on me,” he told him, his deep, rumbling voice cutting through all sound for a moment. “ _Just me_.”

John took several steadying breaths and stared at him, at Sherlock’s black hair that was really a very dark shade of brown with hints of red, at his eyes that looked like a nebula shifting through each and every shade of blue and green and brown, at the drops of perspiration cascading down his brow, weaving in and out of every wrinkle and pore. He smelt the lingering stench of the decomposing body clinging to his clothes, of rosin dust from his bow, the latex of his gloves, a faint aroma of tea and sugar. He could hear him breathing, short, controlled breaths, and… and…

“I… I can hear your heartbeat.”

Sherlock blinked with a soft flurry of his lashes, “Come with me,” he whispered to him and leaned away to quietly roll off his gloves, taking John by the arm with his bared fingers in a warm, firm grip. He led John back up the stairs to his bedroom, keeping him close and making as little noise as possible. The echoing, thumping sounds of Mrs Hudson downstairs, as she went about her day, were dull and lulling compared to what awaited him outside the border of their flat. What was happening? Why the sudden deluge of sounds?

Sherlock pulled him into the bedroom, shut the door, sat him down on the bed, closed the curtains, and then stood nearby expectantly. John closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing for a good few minutes, drawing his knees up to his chest and trying to block as much of everything out as possible. When it finally seemed to come to a more bearable level, he let out a shuddering sigh, and looked up.

Sherlock’s left eyebrow twitched at him in question and he moved to slowly sit beside him on the mattress. It was obvious he was waiting for John to speak first and tell him what had happened and what was wrong. To add to the growing list of symptoms. Although by the look in Sherlock’s eyes, it seemed as though he already had an inkling of what it might be.

John stiffened slightly when the drumming noise he’d been hearing became significantly louder, and he realised that he was still hearing Sherlock’s heartbeat. He shifted his gaze to look down at his feet, and swallowed.

“I woke up smelling it. The body,” he explained slowly, quietly, “I could hear you dropping ice on her – _it_ – and your grunts when you hefted the bags. When I opened the window, I just… it was too much! Too many smells, too many sounds, so much light…”

“I see,” Sherlock said, breathing still controlled. “Perhaps it’s best you stay here then. I shall be working…for a while.” He glanced at John from the corner of his eyes, his heart rate increasing for a moment. “You realise why I must do this, don’t you? Why I brought her here? – I didn’t expect to find her dead. In fact, I rather wanted to find her alive. It would have been…better. Easier. There will be questions I might not be able to answer, with her gone. Things I can’t help you with—Although I doubt she would have been much use. She was hardly of sound mind when she attacked you.”

John just nodded, looking up at him again. “I know.” He frowned, a sudden, horrifying thought occurring. “Do you… do you think that will happen to me? That I’ll… lose my mind?”

“No,” Sherlock told him instantly. “She was alone. You are not.”

As gratifying as that sounded, John couldn’t help but feel he was wrong. He nodded all the same and gave him a small smile. “You’d better bring me up something to eat every so often.”

Sherlock looked away, “About that,” he muttered with a short cringe, looking sceptical and disturbed. “No change in appetite?”

John frowned. “What?”

“I think you know what I’m asking you,” Sherlock said without turning to look at him.

“Is this about that boost in metabolism you muttered about last night?” John asked and shook his head. “I know you weren’t exactly there, but I ate all of my noodles.”

Sherlock shot him a fierce, stern and rather sharp look, “John, she _bit_ you. On the _neck_. For _blood_ ,” he uttered and then lifted both of his eyebrows.

John gritted his teeth together. "Now is not the time to joke, Sherlock.”

“I agree,” Sherlock replied and then stood up, waiting for an answer.

John stared at him for a few moments, and then felt himself go lax in shock. “… You’re serious.”

“Utterly,” Sherlock told him, motioning with one hand as he faced John and continued. “Barely a day, John, barely one day after the initial bite, and you have accelerated regeneration. Now, you’re suffering from overly sensitive senses. Something that you didn’t have several hours ago.” He paced shortly and then rounded on John. “Whatever happened to Jessica, whatever she went through, might be what you are currently experiencing. It makes sense, does it not? If she had gone through what you have just moments ago alone, well, it’s enough to drive _anyone_ mad. – Yet…yet it wasn’t the sounds, or the smells, which forced her hand. Couldn’t have been. Not from what you described. She was desperate, you said. She wanted you. _Craved_ something from you. She bit you. Purposely. And _enjoyed_ it.” He looked straight at John, eyebrows still raised. “There was a reason I first presumed Renfield syndrome after all…”

John shook his head. “That’s insane! I don’t want… I just want some breakfast – toast, cereal, an orange – but not… _that_.”

“I had to ask,” Sherlock said. “And it’s something you need to keep an eye on, John. I can’t be completely sure on anything at this moment. I am rather unbearably unclear on what has happened to you and what is continuing to happen. I have nothing. Not yet. Hopefully more will present itself later. Now I have her, I might be able to…discover something . Collect the right amount of facts from what is available. – But you need to be cautious. She did bite you. That is one thing we are sure of. She bit you hard enough to draw blood, and she enjoyed it. Whatever she had, whatever it was that forced her to want to do that, could do the same with you. So you need to tell me if anything changes.” He looked briefly upset and anxious, though he turned his head away. “Stay here. You do not want to be downstairs for what I need to do.”

John just nodded, daunted by the idea that whatever was happening to him wasn’t over yet, and watched as Sherlock opened his bedroom door and stepped out, taking his scent with him, “I’ll bring something up later,” he told John as he shut the door behind him, looking back at him with one fleeting glance.

“Thanks,” John muttered at the closed door, listening to Sherlock’s footsteps as they carefully descended the stairs. Once he’d reached the bottom, John allowed himself to fall onto his side, burying his nose in his bed sheets and overwhelming himself with familiarity and comfort.

He could still hear Sherlock, of course, and there was still the faint whiff of decomposing flesh, but it was so much more bearable now. He couldn’t hold back the sigh of relief as he melted over his bed. However, the lingering thought that Sherlock had come to _that_ conclusion did not bode well. He wasn’t going to accept it as fact – not yet – but that Sherlock, the biggest sceptic he had ever met, was suggesting such a thing… it didn’t bear thinking about.

Sherlock returned a few hours later, smelling of blood, latex and chemicals, and carrying a full tray of breakfast, complete with a hot cup of tea, “I borrowed Mrs Hudson’s milk,” he said without much emotion in his voice, handing the tray over. The plate was filled with bacon, scrambled eggs, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, fried bread, sausages, and beans.

John moaned in delight at the feast, and all but snatched the tray from Sherlock’s hands, setting it on the bedside table and pulling the mug into his hands. He inhaled the steam with a sigh, and sipped at it, pleased that it finally tasted right.

“God that’s beautiful,” he muttered before turning to look over the plate. “You cooked?”

“No,” Sherlock droned, watching him for a moment and then turning to leave. “If you need to use the toilet, you are allowed to use Mrs Hudson’s. In fact, perhaps you should see her. She would love some company, so you may spend some time with her if you wish.”

John smirked, making a mental note to thank their Landlady – not their Housekeeper – for such a wonderful meal. “Alright. I’ll see her after I’ve eaten. I don’t suppose you’ve seen my phone have you? I think I left it downstairs last night.”

“I have it,” Sherlock told him and tugged said phone from his trouser pocket. “I took the liberty of texting Sarah for you.”

John held out his hand. “Oh? And what did you tell her?”

“That you’re fine,” Sherlock said, handing it over slowly and giving him a look.

John took it and looked it over, checking that it was really what he’d written, and nodding when he saw that it was. “I only have a few days off, Sherlock.”

“There are ways around that without having her become suspicious and nosy,” he rumbled in reply. “Because you cannot leave. You know that, don’t you? You must stay here until things are… rationalised.”

John scoffed. “So what, I’m going to be stuck here like some… lab experiment?”

“Yes. Unless you want to spread this… _thing_ to others?” Sherlock said with rough and harsh annoyance. “Do you not understand what’s happening? – You are _infected_ with something, John. Something that is changing your molecular structure! You think it’s normal for you to be able to heal from a needle mark in less than a few minutes?”

John gritted his teeth but looked away, knowing full well that Sherlock was right. It didn’t make this any less humiliating though.

Sherlock was quiet for a minute and then sighed, “As incredible and illogical and downright crazy as this all seems…it’s _happening_. I can’t say what it is. I can’t say what you will or won’t experience. But what I can say is that…if you are going the same way as Jessica, then we have a lot to think about and address. A lot to look out for during the next several days. – She was on her sixth day, John. The sixth day of her disappearance. The sixth day of being introduced to whatever it was that altered her in such a way. And you are currently on day two. Do you see why I need you to stay here? I need you to be vigilant and to tell me the moment something new occurs.” He adjusted his stance and then turned back to step up close to him, taking some scissors and a cotton swab in a tube from his other pocket. “I need a sample of your hair and saliva.”

John took a deep breath and nodded. “Just make sure you do it before my breakfast goes cold.”

Sherlock reached forward to snip a few strands from the side of John’s head, and then swabbed at his mouth with a nimble twist, “Enjoy,” he muttered as he finally left the room, shutting the door behind him. John could hear him linger outside for a moment, hear his heartbeat alter its speed, but it evened out before Sherlock descended the stairs.

He frowned after him for a few seconds, then shook his head and turned to his meal. It had been too long since his last full-English breakfast, and he devoured the divine meal. Everything was perfect, and though he would rather have savoured every moment, John ended up licking the plate clean in less than ten minutes. Mrs Hudson was a Goddess.

Once he’d allowed the meal to settle, and finished his tea, John made his way down to the first floor, trying to decide whether it was a good idea to venture into Sherlock’s temporary lab. The sounds of his flatmate walking back and forth in the kitchen, however, were more than enough to warn him that he was busy. It didn’t help that the stench of decomposition had returned, though not as strong as it had been before. Shaking his head, he decided against it, and continued down the stairs.

Mrs Hudson beamed when she answered her door and ushered him inside, taking the empty plate from him happily, “Sherlock told me that you were feeling a little run down and needed a boost,” she told him in explanation to the meal even though he’d not asked, gesturing him into her living room as she carried the plate to the sink. “I thought you might come down after. Sherlock looked so serious and very distant, so I’d suspected that you might wish to get out of his way. He’s very prickly when he’s in those sorts of moods. – I suppose he’s busy with that experiment of his in the bathroom that he told me about? What’s he like, eh? I daren’t go in there but please make sure he doesn’t stain or break anything, won’t you?”

“Uh, yes, of course Mrs Hudson,” John replied, stepping into the living room and trying not to flinch at the overwhelming scent of cooking oil, cakes and potpourri, “And thank you for the breakfast. It was mouth-watering.”

“You’re more than welcome, dear,” she responded with another smile, walking to him and peering into his face with a soft squint. “Everything all right?”

John gave her a weak smile. “Yes. I’m just… a little under the weather, as Sherlock said.”

Mrs Hudson continued to look at him and then gently shooed him down on one of her overly cushioned sofas, “Best you stay here with me for a bit. Out of Sherlock’s way. – I was just about to watch one of my soaps!”

John settled on the ridiculously comfortable cushions and chuckled. “Which one is it this time? Emmerdale? Coronation Street? Eastenders?” He shook his head. “Whichever one it is, it’ll be nice to watch something without Sherlock’s never ending commentary for a bit.”

“He does like to drone on,” she nodded in agreement as she dropped down beside him with a happy sigh. “He can really ruin a good thing, our Sherlock. – Though it is somewhat entertaining when he watches Countdown.”

“Unless it’s that ‘8 Out of Ten Cats does Countdown’,” John chuckled, “He almost threw the remote at the screen he was so annoyed!”

Mrs Hudson tittered in amusement, “Oh goodness! He loves throwing things, doesn’t he? Like a little child, he is, having a tantrum.”

“Yes well, if he didn’t he wouldn’t be Sherlock, would he?” John asked her with a smirk.

“Very true,” she grinned.

They both settled in for the next few hours, watching a re-run of Coronation Street and, surprisingly, the majority of Carry On Matron, which neither of them could help but laugh at. It was a brilliant distraction, and John felt like himself again for that short while – though he could still hear Sherlock’s pacing every so often, and he became aware of Mrs Hudson’s heartbeat during the silences in the film. Everything was back to normal again, if only for a short time, but then Mrs Hudson had to leave for the shops and so John trudged his way back up the seventeen steps.

Sherlock barely acknowledged John when he returned, his attention fixated on the slides and vials and samples before him. He looked somewhat like he did when he was working on in-depth research, or when he was on a gruelling and intense case, yet there was a tension in his frame and a sharp quietness surrounding him that was entirely new. Sherlock’s breathing was as steady as his hands and piercing gaze, but the air was thick with pressure and ripples of agitation.

John huffed and crossed his arms. “When was the last time you ate?”

“I’m busy,” Sherlock curtly replied.

John rolled his eyes. “’Busy’, ‘digesting slows me down’, you need food, Sherlock,” he retorted as Sherlock flashed him a narrowed glare and then went back to his work, blatantly snubbing John and remaining silent.

“For God’s sake…” John muttered and walked over to the microwave, opening it up to check that the Chinese from the previous night was still there and heating it up for a few minutes. Once he’d finished, he pushed Sherlock’s Work away and set the box in front of him, all but shoving a fork in his hand. “Eat.”

Sherlock knocked the box aside immediately, sending the food splattering up the counters and across the floor, “Go back to your room,” he told John with a cruel and demanding tone, lobbing the fork into the sink with a ear-splitting rattle.

John refused to flinch. “No,” he said, pulling Sherlock away from the table, “ _You_ have to eat something, or you’re going to keel over!”

“This is more important!” Sherlock shouted and shoved John back a few steps. “I won’t eat. I can’t eat. Not until I work this out. Not until…” He trailed off and then pressed his lips together, his heartbeat racing with adrenaline, anger and anxiousness. “Go back to your room.”

“You can’t keep neglecting yourself like this Sherlock,” John replied, stepping forward again, but not as close as before, “I know this is important – it’s affecting _me_ for Christ’s sake – but I don’t want you collapsing because you’ve refused to eat or sleep!”

Sherlock scoffed and turned to his work again, rearranging everything and turning his back on John with a glower, “I’ve gone longer than this without food and sleep. You know this. You’ve been there. I’m fine. I’m not hungry. Now leave me.”

“Your stomach disagrees with you,” John mumbled, identifying the strange churning sound he’d been putting down as background noise since he’d first heard it, but stepped back, knowing it wouldn’t be any use. “At least have a few biscuits later.”

Snubbing John again, Sherlock ducked his head and stared down the eyepiece of his microscope, expression blank but heart still racing. He carried on where he’d left off with poise and a belligerent aura about him, ignoring the mess of food near his feet. John just sighed at him and pulled a packet of digestives out of the cupboard, leaving them on the side as he made his way back to his room again.

He wasn’t surprised anymore – how could he be when this was a regular occurrence? – but it still bothered him that Sherlock could be so careless. It frequently made him wonder what could have happened to make him view himself in such a way, and he couldn’t help but question who or what it was that had done it. Lowering himself on his bed, John decided to take a nap, knowing he would only end up pacing in worry otherwise.

* * *

He was woken up several hours later by another tray of food carried in by Mrs Hudson, “Sorry to wake you, dear,” she said gently as she shuffled inside with a small smile, “but Sherlock said you’d be wanting some lunch.”

“You’re an angel, Mrs Hudson,” John said, pushing himself up and stretching a little.

“You have a bit of a tiff?” she asked him. “Just that…well…he seems a bit more…” Mrs Hudson trailed off awkwardly with a dainty shrug and another smile. “You know.”

John collected the tray of food from her with a kiss to her cheek and sighed. “I tried to get him to eat.”

Mrs Hudson nodded, “Ah. Yes. That would do it,” she huffed, glancing out the bedroom door worriedly. “Not eaten for a bit, then? – Dear oh dear, what are we going to do with him? The silly lamb.”

“You know how he gets,” John said with a shrug, putting the tray down on the table and examining the sandwiches briefly before picking up the tea, “Won’t let anything distract him now he’s got an experiment to work on.”

“Must be something interesting,” she said as she moved to leave, “bring everything back down to me once you’re finished, dear.”

“Of course, Mrs Hudson,” he repeated with a smile, “I’ll inform you when the storm’s passed too, whenever that may be.”

“I’ll bake him a cake. He always loves my cakes,” Mrs Hudson told him with a wink and a giggle as she shut the door.

John looked down at the sandwich again and sat at his desk chair, running a hand over his face. This was just getting ridiculous. The whiplash he was getting from the situation and how Mrs Hudson was acting was a little disorientating, but he so wanted that normality she seemed to bring to the situation. He chewed despondently at the sandwich and wondered if Sherlock would be able to find anything soon, or if he might have to resort to drastic measures.

The day wore on slowly, filled with bouts of warm visits of Mrs Hudson and the continuous shifting, shuffling, echoing movements of Sherlock as he moved from kitchen to the bathroom and back again. Sherlock didn’t eat the biscuits John had left, didn’t speak to him directly, and barely sat down. The smell of dead blood, chemicals, and Sherlock’s sweat was cloying in its intensity, and only died down when it was replaced with other, stronger, smells.

John had gotten a headache some time in mid-afternoon, and was forced to venture into the bathroom for some paracetamol, which he’d only managed to do by holding his breath for the entire time he was in there. It still stuck to his clothes though, and he was forced to change into something else once he’d returned to his room.

When the light had started to fade from the sky, John thought about opening his window, but it felt too risky, even now that the majority of the sounds would have faded from the city. Instead, to stave off boredom, he decided to wander down to the living room. The room was much the same as it was the last time he’d seen it – messy, but lived in – and he flopped down onto the sofa, looking over at the covered windows. Had Sherlock done that? He couldn’t quite remember any more.

Unmentionable smells were wafting from the kitchen, but he found he could bear it now. He didn’t necessarily want to think about it, but he could bear it. Running a hand over where the bite had been, John pressed down lightly and found he was unsurprised when there was no flash of pain. He hadn’t checked, but he expected the bruises had been gone since the morning.

A clunk brought his attention back to the kitchen, and it awoke the interest he’d had earlier of what Sherlock could have discovered. “Any new developments?” he asked, calling through the closed partition and not moving from his seat.

“She starved to death,” Sherlock said distantly.

“Wonderful,” John muttered and pulled himself up, strolling to open the divider. He recalled the sight of the dead girl’s naked body and frowned. “There is no way she could have starved, she looked perfectly healthy. No sign of atrophy, or rashes, or cracked skin…”

“And she had a stomach full to bursting with undigested food,” Sherlock added, straightening up to look at John. “Yet she had suffered permanent organ damage – On the outside she looked relatively normal, but her insides were anything but.”

John paused in the archway leading to the kitchen and rubbed a subconscious hand over his chest. “Things to look forward to…” he said with false cheer. “Do you know how long it would have taken?”

“Three, maybe four days,” Sherlock murmured quietly, still looking at him. “It was highly accelerated. Almost unrealistically so.”

“Even dying of thirst takes a week,” John agreed numbly. Four days. It had taken four days for Jessica to die of hunger. Just… “An-anything else?”

“She has… mutations,” Sherlock told him with a vague gesture of his hand. “Things that you wouldn’t normally find on a typical human body.”

“Mutations,” John echoed, regretting getting up from the sofa as his legs started to feel a little wobbly.

“Her saliva is different. Altered,” Sherlock began, “some sort of anticoagulant and other compounds.”

John hummed and moved over to stand behind one of the dining table’s chairs, leaning heavily against it so he could keep his balance.

“There are depressions in her nasal cavity. Four of them. They are glandless. – At first I was unsure of their origin and functions…” he said as he took a breath and trailed off with a twisted, awkward smile and a short, humourless laugh.

“Right,” John said, pulling the chair out and sitting down, gazing at the collection of experiments on the table, but not really seeing them. 

“They’re heat sensors. IR-receptors,” Sherlock told him.

“Heat sensors?”

“Like those found on a [Desmodus rotundus](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_vampire_bat),” Sherlock explained without actually explaining anything.

“A what?” John asked, the scientific jargon enough to bring his attention back and show his confusion.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, deftly shifted his fingers over it, and then turned it toward John instead of telling him what he meant outright, “A _Desmodus rotundus_.”

John took the phone and looked down at the tiny rodent that was being depicted. “A bat?”

“Not just any bat,” Sherlock muttered under his breath as he rubbed his face and then laughed again, sounding slightly deranged. “I know how this sounds. But I did the tests myself. I did all of this. All of it! – I cut her open. I all but hollowed her. I checked _everything_. Everything I could ever think to check and compare. And I did it a handful of times, always garnering the same results time and time again!”

John shook his head. “There’s… there’s got to be something you did wrong. Maybe… maybe the microscope is broken, or—”

Sherlock looked crazed and promptly offended by John’s words, “The only things _wrong_ here, are _her_ , and _you_!” he sneered, seeming to instantly regret what he’d said by the way in which his expression fluttered and then shuttered, closing off. “Look at the results yourself. Look at her body. Her organs. Look at her _blood_!—You and her both have been genetically altered by this…virus. The Lin28A gene, which is responsible for regenerating tissues, has been reactivated, boosting metabolism that, in turn, leads to a series of chemical reactions that produces great cellular energy, causing a surge in the rate of repair in damaged tissues.” He took a breath after the rapid surge of words and continued. “Then there is the heightened sense of hearing, sight, and smell. – The anticoagulants, however, are only in her saliva and not in yours. And I can’t be sure if you share the pits and stomach lining that she does. Obviously. It’s not as if I can slice you open too.” He gripped his hair tightly and looked pained, fidgeting on his feet, looking overly restless. “There’s more I need to do. Much more. And I will continue to redo every test. _Every_ one of them.”

“ _Stop_ , Sherlock,” John cried, reaching out and grasping at Sherlock’s hands before he could move, “I believe you. I… I don’t want to, but… I know you, Sherlock. You wouldn’t be telling me this if you didn’t know it was true.”

Sherlock took another, calming, breath and nodded, “She wasn’t done either. Her blood, it…” he trailed off and frowned softly. “There was more. She wasn’t finished. It looked like there was more to come. But she died before there could be any further changes. – The infection, the virus, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. I need to do more studies on it. I need more of your blood, John. I need to compare. I need to…to understand it.”

“Okay,” John agreed, “Whatever you need.”

“If you want to look at my findings,” Sherlock uttered in a murmur, locking eyes with him, “then you’re welcome to them. I admit to finding myself seeking your assistance and opinion, as I have done before.” 

He nodded. “What do you need me to look at?”

“You don’t need to. I shan’t force you. I can…understand how this is for you,” Sherlock said in a small voice. “But you are also a doctor. There are many reasons why I need you with me on cases, and this is one of them. Your knowledge in particular areas surpass mine.” He hesitated and then turned around, picking up a notepad, which he stared at for several long moments and then handed it to John.

John just smiled at him and accepted the pad, then looked at his friend’s findings. There were diagrams and notes scrawled over several pages in Sherlock’s familiar rushed hand. A sketch of the turbinates in the nasal passage, along with the addition of the depressions and annotations on its similarity to the nasal passage of the Desmodus rotundus, along with a sketch of the bat’s nose (not in it, he noted). There were notes on anticoagulants, on how the cellular structure of Jessica’s bodily fluids must have been changing, and her body as well, all adapting to support this sudden increase in… everything.

Diagrams of the eye showed stronger muscles and lens, the ear, a funnelling of the auditory canal, and her internal organs… God, it was just a mess of malnourished muscle and discoloured flesh, each properly labelled, examined and dissected.

John looked back up at Sherlock, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. “And… and this is what might be happening to me?”

Sherlock lowered his eyes, “Yes,” he replied. “I presume so.”

John nodded, looking down at the notes again. “Then… we just have to make sure that I don’t… starve, and then work from there.” He put the pad down and moved his head so that he could grab Sherlock’s attention. “We’ll get through this. Like you said, I’ve got you to help me figure things out.”

“I should have found her earlier,” Sherlock said angrily, reaching up to scrub at his head and face again.

“What, and risk the chance of her infecting you too?” John scoffed, “If she was desperate enough to attack me two nights ago, then what do you think she would have been like the night after?”

Sherlock threw his hands up, “It was a _lapse_. She’s bitten no one else, John. _No one_. Just you. She bit you and only you. I checked, remember? I made sure there were no new cases of someone being attacked in that way by her. She bit you and it scared her. She scared herself. – The food in her stomach, it was after the attack. She stuffed herself full to try and quench that ache, that need that she must have felt that night. She was scared, irrational, and overwhelmed. And she died in pain, on her own, and crammed of food that did nothing for her,” he said. “If I had found her. If I had gotten to her beforehand, things would be…different. – And I would have been fine. She wouldn’t have infected me. She wouldn’t have even had time to attack me. I would have been ready for any sort of violence and easily prevented it.”

“But you didn’t,” John said, standing up. “She’s dead, this happened, and it’s done. It’s _done_ , Sherlock. No ifs or buts. It happened the way it did, and we can’t question what would have happened if it hadn’t. You can’t _blame_ yourself for something you can’t control! You didn’t know! I didn’t know! Do you think I would have let someone suffer like that if I’d known?”

“I need to find out where she had gone. Where she even got this thing,” Sherlock muttered, beginning to pace tensely. “I need to know where she went. I need to find how she came into contact with it – Then perhaps I can understand better. Perhaps there is something there that I’m missing!”

“Not on your own you’re not,” John said as he deflated, pleased that he’d managed to get Sherlock to stop thinking about the ‘what ifs’, though a little disappointed that he was still too focused on this to notice anything else. “If she hadn’t finished going through… whatever this is, then you can’t know what the person or thing that infected her was like. It could be dangerous.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have any say in the matter,” Sherlock told him curtly. “You can’t leave. We don’t know what else will happen tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that! Until we find out about this. Until I find out. You can’t go anywhere. I _won’t_ lose you.”

John blinked at him, mind stuck on those last words. _I won’t lose you. I won’t lose you. I won’t lose_ -

He shook his head and growled, “I won’t be some… _pet_ , kept in the house because it’s too risky to leave! If you’re going to risk yourself for me then the least you could do is let me come with you!” He waved a hand over the table. “And you’re hardly in the right state to go out, chasing leads. You’ve been neglecting your body’s needs since before this even started!”

“This is non-negotiable,” Sherlock informed him austerely.

“Oh, non-negotiable,” John repeated with a roll of his eyes. “Right, so you’re happy to just leave me on my own, leave me to my own devices, perhaps… attack Mrs Hudson while you’re out?”

Sherlock’s entire face sharpened and he moved back, straightening his spine. He stared at John and then suddenly turned back to his samples and his work, taking back the notepad. John felt his heart drop, but he refused to feel sorry for what he’d said. Sherlock needed to understand, and if this is what it took…

“I don’t know what’s happening to me, and if Jess couldn’t keep herself from attacking me, then what’s to say I won’t act the same way?” he asked, his voice lowered and calm.

“You are _not_ her. I won’t allow you to act the same way,” Sherlock told him slowly and very precisely, avoiding eye contact. “I told you. She was alone. You are _not_.”

John watched him for a few moments, and then nodded. “Exactly. Which means I need you _here_ , not running through the streets looking for clues.”

Sherlock huffed in reply and the muscle in his jaw jumped as he grit his teeth, squinting down his microscope, “Mrs Hudson will do you some dinner.”

Standing up straight, John allowed his face to go blank. “Of course. I’ll go see if she wants some help.” As he turned away, he tried not to let the hurt of the dismissal show, and made his way out onto the stairwell.

“I want some blood later,” Sherlock called out to him. “I’ll come to you.”

John merely hummed in reply and descended the stairs, knocking on their Landlady’s door. As he waited he thought about what Sherlock had said, what he’d discovered, and then tried quickly not to think about it. It was impossible. It felt like a nightmare that never ceased, something he couldn’t wake up from no matter how hard he wished he would. He felt trapped and thinking about it too much made his head hurt, made his heart clench, and made him fear for his sanity as well as Sherlock’s. How was any of this real? How could something like this be created or contracted? Was it because of a person or because of a thing? How, when, why, where?

Mrs Hudson opened it and smiled, “Come in love – Hungry?”

“Always for your cooking, Mrs Hudson,” he replied with a smile and stepped over the threshold, leaving his fears and thoughts behind him.

They spent some time talking. Mrs Hudson gossiping about the next-door neighbours with almost ingenuous glee, giggling as she bustled around the kitchen, happy when John offered to help. They stood together, side-by-side, cutting up vegetables and walking to and from the oven, and, once again, John’s problems and anxieties seemed to dull. Every so often, though, he would glance upwards at where he knew Sherlock was, still focused on what seemed to be impossible, yet was clearly not. He didn’t let these moments last though, and kept his mind from wondering throughout their meal.

When Mrs Hudson offered to let him stay a little longer while he was helping her wash the dishes, he shook his head. “I should probably head back up,” he said. “Don’t want Sherlock to push himself too hard.”

“We certainly don’t,” Mrs Hudson replied with a pat to his arm and a concerned sigh. “I know it’s difficult sometimes. Or, he’s difficult sometimes, I should say. But you’re good for him. I’m glad he has you.” She patted him again fondly, rubbing up his shoulder, and then walked him to the door.

“Thanks for today,” John told her as she led him, “The food and TV, I mean.”

“Anytime, dear! Anytime. I love company,” she said with a contented wrinkle of her nose. “Oh! I made a few small cakes as I said I would.” Disappearing back into the flat she bustled to the kitchen and then back to John, holding out a clingfilmed plate full of small cupcakes. “Here. Take them up and hopefully he’ll at least pick at them.”

John grinned in return and gave her a kiss on her cheek, holding her hand in his for a few moments before making for the stairs again. “I’ll see if I can get Sherlock to come down next time.”

Mrs Hudson clasped her fingers together happily in front of her waist, “Oh yes! That would be wonderful!”

He nodded and continued up, listening to her close the door even as he stepped into his own flat. Sherlock was exactly where he’d left him, still working on samples and occasionally scribbling something down in his notes. There wasn’t much point in talking to him about visits downstairs if earlier was anything to go by, so John simply put the plate of cakes on a clear bit of counter, settled in his chair, and turned on the TV.

It was nearing nine when Sherlock walked over and took another blood sample from John’s arm, and as he bent to do it, he looked into John’s face and smiled a small but soft smile at him. It was probably the only sort of apology that John was going to get out of him, so John took it for what it was, but didn’t return the smile. He smelt of such a mixture of things by that point that it was hard to know where one scent ended and another started. Sherlock was just as quick and proficient at drawing blood as ever, and he walked away once he was done, submerged in his work once more.

John watched the TV for a further hour after that, but then decided to call it a night. It took him a while, but eventually, he managed fall into a fitful slumber.


	4. Chapter 4

_The air around him was cold and frigid, yet the hot desert sun beat down on him as he knelt over his charge, his hands pressed against the faceless soldier’s side to stop the bleeding. The red was staining his jumper and spilling onto his combat boots, and he could hear gunfire in the air.  
_ _“Stay with me,” he found himself saying, “You’re going to be alright, just stay with me.”  
_ _A hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling his focus and hands away from the wound, and he was suddenly staring into Sherlock’s changeable eyes.  
_ _“It could be dangerous,” the detective said with a grin, then turned with a dramatic whirl of his coat, and disappeared over the next sand dune.  
_ _John blinked after him, and followed instinctively, jumping over the dune-  
_ _-only to land in the alley around the corner from Baker Street. Red beads littered the floor, rolling aside when his feet came in contact with them, only to spread into a speckled mess of blood.  
_ _As he watched, the blood slowly pooled together, creating one huge puddle, and John could see his reflection within it.  
_ _Arms encircled him from behind, only this time the weight behind him pushed him forwards towards the puddle. He impulsively took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air, and he hit the ground, and sank through it, into a pool of red.  
_ _He couldn’t move, he could only watch the surface as he was dragged deeper below, his lungs screaming for air until--_

* * *

John woke gasping for breath, his hand stretched out above him. Sweat dripped from his brow and made his clothes stick to his skin, while cool air moved in and out of his lungs. Suddenly relaxing, John lowered his arm and buried his face in his pillow, moaning at the absurdity of these dreams.

After getting his breathing back under control, he checked the time. 6:13. Even earlier than last time. His stomach groaned at him, and he placed his hand over it. As much as he would have loved to be able to shower, there was no chance he was going to be using it any time soon with a body in the same room. And even if there wasn’t, he wasn’t comfortable enough knowing it had been. At least his hunger would be a good distraction.

Pushing the bed sheets back, John swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stretched as he stood, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He could vaguely hear Sherlock in the kitchen. He was standing still but fidgeting and adjusting his stance, and he seemed to be writing. A lot. There was a faint drumming of his heartbeat, which seemed to be a bit on the fast side, but other than that, there was nothing but the muted sounds from outside his window. He wasn’t sure what Sherlock’s quickened heart rate meant exactly, but he was bound to find out soon.

Pulling on his dressing gown, John made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. Sherlock’s complexion was ashen, something John had seen many times before when Sherlock had forgone food and sleep. He was writing in his notepad and smelt faintly of the outside, a tang of humidity and car pollution. He didn’t glance up at John’s arrival, but he did pause briefly in his writing.

John sighed. “Oh Sherlock…”

“Mrs Hudson will be awake at around eight,” he said in reply, bending over his notes. “It would be best to have any sort of food from her. As I have emptied our fridge.”

John’s stomach immediately complained, and he covered it with his hand again, scowling down at it as though he had some sort of say over his bodily functions. “Perfect.”

“I needed the space,” Sherlock told him yet turned away to retrieve the untouched biscuits John had given him previously and handed them over.

He took them gratefully, and started to nibble on one. However, after a few moments, he realised it didn’t taste… right. He held the biscuit he’d taken a bite out of up so he could examine it, sniffed it, broke it apart in his fingers, but there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it. And yet it tasted incorrect in some way, and he spat out his mouthful into the bin. He tried a second, just in case it was a one off, but it garnered much the same result. He thought that perhaps they were out of date, but even the Sell By date hadn’t run out yet.

Sherlock was watching him with sharp, penetrating, bloodshot eyes, and he tilted his head, arching a quick eyebrow, “Problem?”

Instead of answering, John held out the remains of the two biscuits towards him. “Do these taste right to you?”

“How do they taste?” Sherlock asked, ignoring the biscuits and still staring.

“I don’t know,” John replied, “Wrong? Just… do they taste off to you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with them,” Sherlock told him and reached for a swab, stepping toward John with intent.

“They must’ve been exposed to whatever experiments you’ve been doing since I took them out of the cupboard,” John stated, taking a step backwards.

“No,” Sherlock said and took another step toward him, extending the swab. “Let me.”

John stared at it, then at the biscuits, then up at Sherlock. “You think this might be the next stage?”

“Anything new. Anything different. It could all be related to what’s happening,” Sherlock said gently and for a moment lowered the swab. He seemed to consider something and then moved to search the cupboards, pulling out some cereal, and finding some bananas, one orange, and a small slice of Madeira cake. Placing them down, he gestured for John to try them.

John gave each of them a worried look, and picked up the box of cereal, digging out a few flakes and dropping them on his tongue. Once again, there was something off about it – more than the fact that it was dry cereal - and he spat it out after a few chews. The banana was also spat out, as was the piece of cake, but the orange was surprisingly palatable. He ended up eating the whole thing, much to his stomach’s delight. It didn’t taste quite like it should have, but it was delicious all the same.

Sherlock wrote something down and rummaged through more of the cupboards before reaching for the bread bin, finding a piece with a short smile, “And this,” he told him, giving it over. He then grabbed for the jar of sugar and stuck a spoon in it. “And some of this.”

John’s brow rose at the offered food (or sweetener, as the case may be), and took them cautiously. The bread didn’t smell off, so he took a small bite out of it. It wasn’t too bad – also fairly edible – so he swallowed the bite, but didn’t eat any more of it. The sugar on the other hand, felt like sand on his tongue. He ended up washing his mouth out with water.

“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured as he regarded him, eyes narrowed and fingers twitching.

John moved to sit at the table and rested his head in his hands. “How can I be so hungry yet not want anything?”

Sherlock quietly moved around John, heading for a corner of the kitchen, “Jessica probably felt much the same…”

“How could she have born it, out there, on her own?” John asked, not expecting an answer but feeling the need to ask anyway. He just needed to get it out of his mind, of his mouth.

Sherlock’s heartbeat picked up when he stopped, standing as still as stone, “Not well,” he rumbled in a monotone.

John frowned at the sudden rise in his friend’s rhythm. What was there about this to get excited about? There was an abrupt clink of metal and then the sound of something tearing with a soft, wet drag. Sherlock’s heart rate spiked and he inhaled though his nose deeply, a sentiment John automatically copied, only for the most gorgeous scent he had ever smelled to infiltrate his system. He stiffened for a brief moment and then relaxed with a moan when he inhaled again, a strange, almost euphoric haze wrapping around his thoughts, even as he tried to decipher its source. He frowned and blinked a few times, before he slowly followed the scent, turning towards Sherlock.

Sherlock had his back to John, though he had his head turned slightly, peering over his shoulder with one discerning eye. He didn’t move for a moment, and the scent wafted from him in hot, overwhelming waves, engulfing John’s senses repeatedly and filling the space between them. Once he finally did move, there was a patter, like thick water droplets hitting a surface, and it was only when Sherlock turned around completely that John realised what it had been. Blood. Sherlock’s left index finger was oozing and dribbling blood. In his right hand he held the ragged, sharp blade of the bread knife, its tip very slightly stained red and dripping.

John couldn’t look away. He was mesmerised by the _Red_ that was seeping out of the long digit, and, standing, he took a step forward, unconsciously licking his lips. It was everything now. The salt and copper overtaking the chemicals and rot that had been the kitchen. It was wonderful…

Sherlock brandished the blade very slightly, turning it toward John as he spoke, “What do you feel? What does it _smell_ like?” Sherlock whispered as thick, trembling, crimsons globules fell to catch one of his bare feet. Two more collided with the tiled floor in another few taps, flattening into a beautiful, splattered puddles.

John blinked with a bleary frown as he watched the drops splash, then steadily moved his gaze up to meet Sherlock’s. “You’re wasting it.”

“Do you want it?” Sherlock asked, cocking his head aside and peering into John’s face.

John looked down at the blood again and nodded, swallowing the saliva that had begun to gather and pool against and around his tongue. With a twist and crumple of his mouth, Sherlock lifted his injured finger, extending it high and moving it above John’s head steadily, watching him without blinking as another several droplets formed and quivered, ready to fall. It seemed theatrical, like something out of a film, but John barely had a millisecond to ponder in almost hysterical amused before the thought was gone, replaced with blood. Sherlock kept the blade aimed at John cautiously, warningly, anxiously, as if he were afraid of John pouncing at any moment, and then flexed his digit to decisively free the blood.

John had been unconsciously reaching up towards the hand, but before he could reach it, the drops fell onto his fingers. He froze, briefly, and then drew his hand back, staring at the warm, red pathways running down his palm, before licking them up. He moaned in pure delight, eyes falling shut as he allowed himself to enjoy the moment. Sherlock took the fact that he was distracted to turn on the taps, washing the blade and then sticking his finger under the stream, letting the blood run down the drain as he quickly grabbed and tore off a paper towel from the nearby roll. Wrapping his finger in it he moved away from John, putting the table between them, and pressed his mouth together tightly, looking immensely unhappy. He wrote something down on his notepad, underlining it in jagged, ripping lines, and then leaned on the table with a sigh, peeking at John through his fringe.

It took John a few moments to come back to himself, too lost in that ethereal joy to do anything more than breathe and watch Sherlock. But then reality came crashing back, and he stiffened. “Oh… _oh_ G-god,” he stuttered, staring down at his hands.

“Sit down,” Sherlock told him with an edge to his voice. John remained where he was for a few more seconds, shaking and tense with raising fear and disgust, but then followed Sherlock’s instruction, blinking rapidly to keep his tears at bay and wiping the hand he’d not touched the blood with over his face.

“This…doesn’t exactly mean what you think,” Sherlock said to him after taking several breaths. “You still ate food. Not all of it, but you did like some of it. It just tasted…off, yes?”

“Orange juice is a popular drink advised for those who have low blood pressure,” John explained on automatic. “Salt in the bread, in the biscuits…” He felt lost, even as he rationalised, and dropped back down on the chair he’d vacated. “There wasn’t enough… salt or… or…” The world felt like it was dissolving around him, as though it was losing its solidity.

“John. _John_ , keep calm,” Sherlock told him even as his voice wavered very faintly, barely noticeable. He reached out and then quickly put his injured finger behind his back with a frown and a sigh. “John, _look_ at me. _Focus_ on me.”

John took several long, deep breaths, and focused his gaze on Sherlock’s, examining the way his eyes seemed to fluctuate instead of what had just happened. It worked, but barely. He still felt everything around him withdrawing into mere colour and light, but Sherlock was vivid and solid and enough to keep him grounded, keep him from falling into the black pit in the back of his mind that he’d often tripped and fallen into in the past.

“Good,” Sherlock breathed, flashing him a wonky sort of smile. “Good…”

He tried to return it – felt the corner of his lip twitch slightly – but it didn’t quite work. “So…”

“So,” Sherlock repeated, ruffling his fringe and looking away, eyes on the fridge, “I’m going to need another…few samples. And later, I need you to eat. Hold your nose. Ignore the taste. And _eat_.”

John just nodded. “I guess this means I won’t be seeing Mrs Hudson today then?”

“I’ll get the food from Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock replied.

He nodded again and looked down at his hands, clasped together on the table. “I bought some antiseptic the other day. I think we have enough plasters, but I don’t know how big that cut was.” He swallowed. “I’d offer to look at it, but…”

“I’ll sort it,” Sherlock said, leaning away from him. He paused, stared at John for a long, lingering moment, and then walked off to apparently deal with his bloodied finger, leaving a trail of magnificent, tormenting scent behind him.

John caught a glimpse at where the blood had seeped through the paper towel, drenching it crimson. He couldn’t help but stare at it, yet tore his eyes away after several long moments, and shut them tight, breathing through his mouth and grasping his hands tightly together before him. He could almost feel himself shivering from want, but ignored it. If this is what Harry felt like every time she was around alcohol, then it was no wonder she’d fallen off the wagon so many times. It was overpowering and earthshattering, and so tempting.

When Sherlock returned he smelt strongly of antiseptic and he eyed John warily, “Tell me what it felt like? What it…tasted like?”

John hesitated before he answered, but when he did, it was in a strong voice. “I couldn’t focus on anything except the blood. It was like I’d suddenly stepped into a haze of euphoria. It muddled everything. I couldn’t think straight. I just remember wanting it, and nothing else.”

“I may want to experiment with this new found craving,” Sherlock said outright, looking tired and despondent. “We do not need to do anything now, but it shall be at some point today.”

John shivered. “I can still smell it. The bits that dripped on the floor…”

“The taste then? What did it taste like?” Sherlock asked him, moving to use his notepad again.

“Like… blood,” John shrugged. “Coppery, salty… except, there was this odd flavour of…” He frowned, trying to find the right word. “Something… something sweet, but savoury. It was hot, and spicy, yet soothing. It was thick, and it was smooth. Is that what you’re asking?”

“I…suppose.” Sherlock frowned at him and blinked. “Obviously your sense of taste has now been affected. Other food doesn’t taste right and blood has more to it, more flavour – No wonder Jessica enjoyed tasting yours so much.”

John groaned in dismay. To lose such a human pleasure as food…  
Sherlock’s pale, warm hand shifted uncertainly over both of John’s where they were still firmly clasped on the table. It was clumsy, self-conscious, and hesitant, but it was also rather resolute. Sherlock patted John’s fingers awkwardly and then pulled his hand back, looking away.

Almost as soon as they’d gone, John felt the loss acutely, and he pulled his arms across his chest to make up for it. “I’ll… I’ll go back to my room then.”

“No,” Sherlock said and sighed, rubbing and tugging at the short curls at his nape. For a moment he stared at John, as if considering something, as if going over something repeatedly in his mind. “I…thought about what you said, and realise it might be good. That it’s a good idea.”

John blinked. “What I said?”

Sherlock rotated his wrist vaguely between them, “To have you with me,” he said. “I want to go to Bart’s. I’d like to _borrow_ some equipment. I could do with an extra pair of hands.”

“I…” John frowned. “St Bart’s is a hospital, Sherlock.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said with an annoyed furrow of his brow. “I’m quite aware of that, John, thank you.”

“Which means _blood_ , Sherlock,” John continued, equally exasperated.

“I know that also, John,” Sherlock replied and gave him a strange look, altering his posture and giving a tight, twitch of his mouth. “It’s a big place, that is regularly cleaned, I highly doubt it will affect you as much as it did moments ago. _That_ was fresh and in close quarters. Bart’s is vast and filled with a multitude of scents. – Plus, the portion of Bart’s I wish to visit is the labs. Where we first met. I need equipment.” He leaned on the table. “I need equipment and I need you to help me get that equipment. I know it seems odd that I’d want you to leave the flat with me now, that it seems like a very high risk and something I’ve denied and forbidden you from doing thus far, but you are not going out alone and you are not at the stage poor Jessica was yet. You didn’t pounce for me, for my neck like she had with you, nor did you really do much about my open finger wound. You were too dazed and wanting…too entranced.”

John considered it for a moment, finding a plethora of reasons _not_ to go; he could be overwhelmed by everything again, he could pass someone who had injured themselves, or, God, would a woman’s menstrual cycle trigger his craving? And yet, the need to leave the flat was too insistent to ignore.

“Just give me a minute to get changed,” he said, standing from his chair. “Is _she_ still in the bath?”

“For now. She’ll be gone soon. I promise,” Sherlock told him, walking around to stand by him, flitting his eyes over John’s face. “I wasn’t going to take you. I was going to go alone, without you knowing. I knew all the ways it could have gone wrong if I did, and know all the new ways it might end in disaster, but I’ve thought about it and I do need that equipment sooner rather than later. Besides, I don’t want you to feel like you’re some sort of…well, you said pet, so, _that_. – I have a route for things. A plan. One you might not like. However, it’s the only one that will work, and I need that equipment. I _need_ it. All right?”

John nodded. “Thanks. I think.” He grinned and gave Sherlock a short wave as he headed out of the kitchen, being careful to step over the drops of blood that were still on the ground. “You know you’re going to have to clean that up, right?”

Sherlock looked at it, as well as the smears of Chinese food that had been left, “Perhaps,” he murmured. “Though you _will_ have to get used to the smell of blood sooner or later. It would be difficult to avoid completely.”

John just rolled his eyes and made his way up the stairs. It didn’t take him long to change; he had luckily done the washing a few days before, so he had a stock of fresh clothes. He was about to throw his dirty clothes in the basket when he noticed his blood stained shirt from the night in question. He hadn’t gone after it when he’d woken up that morning, so perhaps old blood wasn’t… appetising enough, or something. With that in mind, he trotted down the stairs again and entered the kitchen with a wrinkled nose.

“I think the Chinese is going off,” he said as he pulled on his coat, which was surprisingly bearable, considering what he’d managed to spill over it.

“Definitely,” Sherlock said, already in his shoes as he swung on his coat, checked his phone, and descended the stairs. He paused at the door and glanced over his shoulder. “Stay close to me.” Taking a steadying breath, John took a step closer and nodded.

“I…won’t object to holding your…hand either. If you need it,” Sherlock got out around a grimace and an uncomfortable expression. He smiled at John tightly with a faint shrug of one shoulder and then opened the door slower than he normally would, stepping out in front of John. The world with it’s light, it’s sound, it’s smell, rushed around and over Sherlock’s frame to slap John in the face.

Acting on impulse, John immediately snatched onto Sherlock and closed his eyes, leaning his face against his friend’s shoulder as he allowed everything to flow over him and focused on the coat he buried his nose in. **  
**The sounds were still bombarding his eardrums though, and he tried to push it all into the background – to let it all fade into the consistent buzz of London. Once he had grounded himself enough, he turned his focus on smells, pulling away from Sherlock’s shoulder and trying to do the same thing he had with his hearing. It didn’t quite work, but once he’d chosen a focal point, he was able to push everything else away.

As he breathed in the rosin dust and decomposing flesh that clung to Sherlock, he slowly opened his eyes in small bursts, waiting for them to adjust at each stage until he was able to keep them open. He had no idea how long the whole process had taken, but he felt more relaxed and secure now, though not enough to let go of Sherlock’s sleeve just yet.

“All right?” Sherlock whispered to him, waiting patiently with a soft, concerned frown on his face.

“Yeah,” John breathed, and then sent him a smile. “Just had to… get used to everything.”

“I know,” Sherlock nodded and then reached back to shut the door behind them, walking them both forward toward the kerb. He kept the pace slow and when he saw someone walking their way, he paused and pressed back into John to keep him shielded from the flush of strong perfume and cigarette smoke that dripped from them in thick, reaching streams.

He still smelt it, of course, but with Sherlock being so close, he was able to ignore it with relative ease. “We’ll be catching a taxi then?”

Sherlock answered him by extending the arm John wasn’t holding onto and hailing a cab with an almost magical ease, “You’ll be fine,” he told John as he opened the car door, inhaling quietly before he added, “relatively fine,” in a low mutter.

Sliding into the taxi next to him, John put his coat sleeve over his nose after closing the door. “I think someone threw up in here recently,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed with a wrinkle of his nose, leaning forward to give the address of the hospital. When he leaned back, he did so at an angle, pushing closer to John, and then flicked up his collar. It released the smell of rain and Sherlock’s familiar cologne.

John leaned in so that stench of bile, alcohol, bleach, sweat and various forms of mud (and excrement in some cases) was shadowed by Sherlock’s scent, and he lowered his hand once again, eyes flicking over the taxi’s interior. He could see scratches on the door from where someone had scraped their keys along it, grit and pebbles mixed in with the carpet, a corner of it slightly lighter than the rest from where the driver had cleaned up the puke, loose threads on the seating from when someone was bored and started picking at it…

“So, what are we getting exactly?” he asked, pulling himself back before he got too lost in the details.

“Just a few bits and bobs,” Sherlock replied ambiguously.

John gave him a disbelieving look but didn’t say anything about it. “I don’t think old blood affects me, by the way,” he stated instead. “There’s still some on the shirt I was wearing when it happened, and nothing happened when I saw it.”

Sherlock shot him a sideways look, still sticking close to John’s side, “I see – Not terribly surprised by that but that’s… good to know,” he said lowly, rubbing his forehead and then tapping his brow. “Now all we need to do is find out if it’s only human blood that you’ve taken a liking to.” He looked at John again.

John hummed, feeling a little sick at the thought of trying different kinds of blood – at having to digest blood at all – but it seemed it was the only way he was going to survive. “The local butcher’s might have some?”

“Indeed so,” Sherlock breathed with a gentle incline of his head. “I’ll procure all of that later.”

John spared a glance at the driver and wondered what the poor man must have been thinking, but then shook his head and decided to ignore it. “And you’d better rest up tonight. I don’t want you falling over and injuring yourself while I’m like this.”

Sherlock pursed his mouth with a gritting of his teeth, “I’ve been sleeping. Not properly but it’s enough,” he told John, looking down at his wrapped up finger. “I will, however, eat food with you. Today. When we get back.”

“Good,” John accepted, knowing it was the best he was going to get, then sighed. “This is a nightmare.”

“I should have brought a bag or something,” Sherlock mumbled under his breath idly, looking out the window and then frowning. “Some of the equipment is a little on the large side…”

“I thought that was what I was for,” John replied.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a smile, “Well, yes, but I’m not sure you’ll be able to carry everything in your arms.”

John snorted. “So we’re robbing the labs blind?”

“Slightly,” Sherlock said in a rumbling whisper. “I told you that you’d not like it – I’ll give it all back at a later date. Probably.”

“Unbelievable,” John muttered, rolling his eyes, but he couldn’t help his smirk at the familiarity of the situation.

Sherlock’s smile curled bigger, “I doubt they’ll notice the gear has gone. At least for a bit.”

“It’s not like they’ll miss it,” John mockingly agreed.

“Definitely not,” Sherlock huffed.

John sighed again, turning to look out the window. “Idiot.”

Bart’s was an old, looming building that stretched up in a straight and neat mountain of white bricks and many windows, and Sherlock peered intently at it as the taxi pulled up to the side. He paid the driver, shocking John for a moment, and then climbed out, blocking most of the surging scents outside with his coat.

The smells and sounds were different in this part of London, and so they invaded John’s senses again as if for the first time, ruthlessly making him dizzy as they bombarded him all at once. Sherlock waited, one arm bent back for John to take if he needed. He thought he could handle it for a bit, but then someone brushed into him, and John staggered into Sherlock, taking hold of the arm as he centred himself. Once he’d managed to calm down, he gave Sherlock’s arm a squeeze, and the two of them walked into the Hospital.

“This way,” Sherlock told him, steering them through a part of the hospital that John had been to in the past. Sherlock was, of course, correct about the strong, cascade of a million and one smells. Most of them belonged to different types of cleaning solution. Sherlock glanced at him every so often and led the way deeper into the building, opening doors with something he pulled from an inner pocket. Another thing he no doubt ‘borrowed.’

“Is there no end to your depravity?” John asked humorously as they continued to walk, feeling able to be further from Sherlock than before now that he’d grown accustomed to the uniformity of the building’s stimulus.

Sherlock led them into an unused room and then into a storage cupboard and looked around, “Thermal cycler, vortex shaker, platform shaker – as mine is still quite broken – refractometer, several more pipettes, osmometer…” he said, drifting his fingers over the shelves, trailing off into incoherent muttering.

John’s brow rose. “Sounds like we should have brought more than just a bag. A trolley, perhaps?”

“Mm,” Sherlock replied distractedly, stepping close to look through everything with a furrowed brow of concentration.

John huffed and started looking around for something to carry everything in. Surprisingly enough, he managed to find a large plastic box, hidden behind one of the pipette stands. Pulling it out, he set it on the ground next to his feet. “Found something to carry everything in.”

Sherlock turned to look at it and then smiled, “Brilliant. Well done,” he said, throwing two handfuls of pipettes inside messily. “And if there’s anything else you think I’ll need, just pop it in.”

He looked down in the box for a few moments, and then went to collect a stack of petri dishes, placing them carefully inside and pushing the pipettes into something resembling a pile. He also picked up a few packets of sterilised syringes as well, pushing down on the knowledge that what they were doing was, in fact, illegal.

Sherlock picked up and added a few machines and bulkier equipment to the box, glancing at John through his fringe. He kept a rather blatant watchful eye on John as they filled the box together, only shifting his gaze to the door whenever they heard footsteps moving outside in the hallways. Each time the footsteps seemed too close, John automatically stiffened, but once the danger had passed, he continued packing with a mumble about how ridiculous this entire situation was.

“I don’t see why you couldn’t have just asked Molly about this stuff,” he said after a while, “I don’t doubt she would have given it to you.”

“Using the facilities is one thing – As is beating and inspecting corpses – But taking equipment is quite another. It has always been rather frowned upon,” Sherlock told him. “No amount of charming would have changed her mind.” He smirked very slightly. “I didn’t ask before, so I shan’t ask now. I’d only be declined and it would waste time. And annoy me. _Greatly_.”

“How could I have thought otherwise?” John asked, looking down at the box. “Is that everything? Or is there more that you’ve decided to nick?”

“Borrow. I’m borrowing,” Sherlock corrected him with a mischievous expression, glancing back into the storage area. His coat pockets were bulging but most of it had gone into the box. “And no. I think that’s it for now.”

John hummed and picked up the box with a grunt. As his arms wrapped around it, he glanced at the door, listening to the footsteps, heartbeats, and breaths of those nearby. “You’ll stay close?”

“I won’t leave your side,” Sherlock told him and the tone in which he said it was odd. Like a passionate promise.

John quirked a brow at him but found himself thankful, and made his way to the door, listening carefully. There were some footsteps down the hallway, already edging away, and what sounded like a pen scratching across a clipboard, but after a few moments, they faded, and the corridor became silent.

“It’s clear,” he said, giving the door a nod.

Sherlock stepped out and closed the door behind them, locking it quickly. He looked at John and then led them back the way they’d come slowly, changing courses whenever there was someone heading their way or blocking their route. Once they were back outside again, Sherlock moved instantly to the kerb, looking around and walking along the edge of the pavement until he saw and hailed them another taxi.

While waiting for Sherlock to get them a ride, John stood in the doorway, simply breathing and letting the change in atmosphere wash over him. It was much easier now that he knew how to do it, but it still took him a few moments. Once he’d managed it though, he crossed the pavement to join Sherlock before the detective was given the chance to return to him.

“Strangling, isn’t it?” Sherlock murmured, opening the door to the cab when it rolled to a stop beside him. “How distracting and devastating the world can be?” He took the box from John, sliding it into the taxi first, and then gestured John in. “Perhaps you will need your own mind palace?”

“It’s almost too much to comprehend,” John agreed, moving in to settle beside the box. This cab was mostly easier to handle as it smelled newer, but it had one of those atrocious Jelly Bean air fresheners hanging from the rear view mirror, and all John could smell was a chemical reproduction of strawberries. Sherlock sat beside him with a gush of warmth, pushing into his side as he shut the door and gave their address to the driver promptly, his gaze already locked outside the window, which he mostly did when he was thinking, or about to think.

“So…” John said after a few minutes of quiet between them. “This is kind of what it’s like for you? Just being… bombarded by everything, all the time?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said in a raspy whisper, turning to glance at John. “Kind of – It was worse in my youth. Much worse.” He locked gazes with him. “I can control it better now. Deal with it better. Sort of. Some days.” He smiled one of his small smiles again.

John smiled back at him, settling into the car seat. “Well, if you can do it, then there’s probably some hope after all.”

“I’ll teach you,” Sherlock told him looking suddenly smug. “If you like?”

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re just going to use it as an excuse to call me an idiot – a lot?”

Sherlock’s smile widened with a crooked yet natural twist, “Because I may do that. Though, really, when don’t I?”

John snorted. “You’re just looking for a valid excuse. Your usual ones have gotten too boring for you or something.”

“You know me too well,” Sherlock said light-heartedly, turning to look back outside the window. John watched him for a moment, and then found himself covering his mouth as light giggles escaped him. Sherlock arched his eyebrow, though he didn’t turn his head back around, “What?”

“ _You_ ,” John replied. “This… situation. Sneaking around. It’s like everything’s changed, yet everything’s exactly the same.” He chuckled. “Just finding it funny that I actually might start to understand you.”

Sherlock huffed and leaned his head back on the headrest, “You understand me enough. More than enough, occasionally,” he said in a very quiet tone, only heard because of John’s exceptional hearing. He sighed and gestured idly. “Though does it really matter? Not knowing is all part of the fun. The mystery. The surprise. It would be boring if everything and everyone were the same. Would it not?” He frowned at his own wording and then glared down at his injured finger. “Plus, you might not like what you uncover…”

John’s grin faded at Sherlock’s forlorn look, but he replaced it with a soft smile. “Then I won’t look.” He put his hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Not unless you give me permission.”

Sherlock’s attention shifted to John’s fingers against the dark fabric of his coat, and then trailed up to his neck, then his face. He looked like he was about to say something, several something’s, but he didn’t and just stared at John until the taxi stopped outside the flat. John rubbed his arm and gave him a nod, acknowledging that there was more to be said, but that neither of them was ready, and turned to pay the driver.

Sherlock stuck by him as they walked the short distance to the flat, his mind obviously elsewhere. He ushered John inside, shutting and locking the door behind them, and then had John put the box down on the kitchen table as he shrugged out of his coat and checked his phone.

“Mrs Hudson should be awake now,” he told John. “Do you want the same as yesterday? To eat?”

“If it isn’t any trouble,” John replied, revelling in the sudden lack of information, “I mean, everything tastes the same, but it’s just missing something.”

“Come with me,” Sherlock said and walked past him, descending the stairs to knock on Mrs Hudson’s door with one extended knuckle. He listened barely a second before he opened the door and stepped in, inches away from where Mrs Hudson was walking over in her dressing gown and slippers.

She gasped with a hand to her chest and then clicked her tongue in reprimand, “Sherlock!”

“You wanted me to eat. You both did,” Sherlock told her while she rolled her eyes fondly “So here I am.”

“Sorry, Mrs Hudson,” John apologised, giving Sherlock an exasperated look and a nudge.

She waved both hands with a small smile, “Sit down then,” she told them, shaking her head as she walked into the kitchen.

“Are you sure you don’t want any help?” John asked, even as Sherlock slumped down in one of her chairs.

“You’re so lovely,” Mrs Hudson said, glancing over at Sherlock with raised eyebrows, “you would do well to take a leaf out of John’s book, Sherlock. Learn some manners.” She looked back at John happily. “I did so enjoy cooking with you yesterday, so why not! – What’s it to be though? Full English like before? Need something nice and filling, get some meat on those bones!”

“If that isn’t too much trouble?” John replied, following her into the kitchen, “Where did you put your frying pans?”

Mrs Hudson nodded to a cupboard, “They’re in there, love, and of course it’s no trouble! No trouble at all,” she told him.

John smiled at her and pulled the pans out, setting them on the hobs and pouring some oil in. He also pulled a tin of beans from where he’d seen them the day before and set them on the side. “Is there anything you don’t like, Sherlock?” he shouted into the other room.

Sherlock didn’t reply and Mrs Hudson huffed, peeking through at him as she leaned toward John, “He’s not too fussy. He’s not terribly keen on beans but…well, look at him. He needs to eat them regardless,” she said with a determined nod. “He looks awful.”

John sighed as he set everything up. “He says he’s been sleeping, but it mustn’t be very much. He’s been focused on… his latest experiment for at least three days now. I haven’t seen him eat anything yet.”

Mrs Hudson frowned in worry with a fretful sigh, “Silly man,” she mumbled, turning around with purpose. “I’ll just quickly make him a tea.”

“You’re a Goddess, Mrs Hudson,” John told her, giving her a peck on the cheek as he started dropping rashers in the pans.

Flushing in affection she shooed him away with a wide smile and filled the kettle. Sherlock, John noticed when he briefly looked, was on his phone and hunched over, and he scarcely lifted his head when Mrs Hudson moved in with his tea. She gave him a tut, touched his shoulder, and then placed the mug down nearby, her hands on her hips. Sherlock ignored her, though this only made her fuss over him more, muttering to him about staying healthy and eating and sleeping more, and then pushing back his fringe to cup his face. When she returned, she shook her head, shared a look with John, and rolled up her sleeves to continue cooking.

Fifteen minutes later, John helped carry three plates of a full English breakfast into the sitting room and held one of them out to Sherlock, holding it purposely over his phone. Sherlock looked up at him with a weak glower and took it, putting his phone away.

Mrs Hudson grinned and put the TV on, moving to sit with her plate in her lap and giving Sherlock a sly glance as she found a repeat of Judge Judy. Nodding with a wink at John, she settled in against the cushions and patted the spot next to her. “Park your bum,” she told John.

“Yes ma’am,” he answered with a small salute and sat in the seat offered, looking down at the plate with mild apprehension. Sending Sherlock a look, he lifted a forkful of beans into his mouth. It took a great deal of effort not to scrunch his nose in disgust, but whatever it was he put in his mouth did _not_ taste like beans. He managed to sneak a look at Mrs Hudson’s plate and noticed that she’d already eaten half of hers, so they obviously were. Taking a moment to let it sit in his mouth, John wriggled his nose, and swallowed.

Sherlock observed him and then sat back, starting on his own plate. He ate slowly at first, picking at his food, sometimes merely pushing it around his plate, and then began almost shovelling it into his mouth, his heartbeat increasing with pleasure with each mouthful. He ate like the starving man he was, his eyes glued to the TV and his face regaining some colour. John could hear the food being chewed up in his mouth and wetly moving down his throat with each swallow, and it was enough to put John off his food even more, regardless of the taste. Mrs Hudson beside John, who had been secretly watching Sherlock, nudged John contentedly and grinned with triumph.

In a complete reverse of the norm, John’s plate was still mostly untouched by the time Mrs Hudson had decided that breakfast was over, and Sherlock’s was completely empty. John had managed to try a bit of everything, had attempted to swallow everything, but the last bite of bacon had been enough. He didn’t want to throw up on Mrs Hudson’s carpet.

“Not as hungry today, John, dear?” Mrs Hudson asked as she pushed up to her feet with a tender frown, taking his plate from him after collecting Sherlock’s, who she had petted proudly like a delighted parent.

“It was all your lovely cooking yesterday,” he agreed readily, rubbing his belly, “Not used to eating so well.”

Mrs Hudson perked up in an instant as she disappeared into the kitchen and Sherlock turned to look at him, “You _hated_ every moment of it,” he said under his breath. “You almost—”

“We’re not talking about it here,” John mumbled back to him.

Sherlock sighed and regarded him for a long minute, getting suddenly to his feet, “I’m going out,” he stated. “ _Without_ you this time. I won’t be long.”

“Wait,” John replied, also rising, “Won’t be long? Where are you going?”

“The butchers,” Sherlock told him, looking him in the eyes with a raised brow. “I won’t be long. Thank Mrs Hudson and go back upstairs. Please.”

John’s jaw tightened, then he turned back to the kitchen. “Mrs Hudson? Do you need any help with the washing?”

Sherlock grabbed his arm to stop him, but quickly let go with a sigh, “I’ll be back later,” he said instead and left without another word, shutting the door just as Mrs Hudson popped her head around the corner in confusion.

“Oh. Gone back to his experiment, has he?” she said with a roll of her eyes and an exasperated sigh, unaware that Sherlock was still standing outside the door. “Well, at least he ate—And I won’t say no to some help, dear! You can dry and put away while I wash.”

John smiled at her. “Of course. Just point me in the right direction.”

The atmosphere was soft and pleasant as John and Mrs Hudson stood beside each other again, but it barely lasted longer than ten minutes, and soon Mrs Hudson was smiling at him as she shut the door to her flat, leaving him to take the stairs back up to the smell of decay and chemicals.

Looking around the living room, John decided to start unpacking the equipment they had ‘borrowed’ rather than lounge around and allow his thoughts his fester. So, instead of worrying about how much he’d wanted to throw up Mrs Hudson’s cooking, or about the fact that he was more than likely going to have to ingest some animal blood soon, he focused on figuring out where Sherlock would put the refractometer, or the platform shaker.

When Sherlock finally returned it was several hours later, something that John did not file under ‘not long.’ He was carrying several bags and a cage. A cage with a handful of live mice inside it. Some of them squeaked, while others climbed the bars, or huddled in a corner half asleep. The smell of them, as well as the sawdust and the plastic of the bags in Sherlock’s fingers, was sudden and overpowering. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge John and set about putting the cage on the kitchen counter, and then opening the bags. He pulled out medical blood bags labelled with different blood types, including one that was unlabelled and only slightly filled, and then several large flasks.

“Before you start,” Sherlock intoned sharply, “the only person I’m interested in, is _you_. I realise taking these from the hospital was more than a ‘ _bit not good_ ,’ but I don’t honestly care. I’m not sorry I lied to you either.”

John just stared at the table, trying to figure out how words worked. He’d robbed a blood bank. A _blood bank_. That was so beyond not good he couldn’t even describe it. How could he do such a thing? It could have been used to save someone’s life! And Sherlock had just… just…

He blinked. “What did you do?”

“You knew I’d do this,” Sherlock scoffed in response. “This is what I meant before. You don’t want to understand me. You don’t want to know me completely. I’m not a good man, John.” He stared at John with no emotion on his face but piercing eyes. “I’m _really_ not.”

John wanted to return his gaze, to show him how disappointed he was, but it was almost as though his eyes were fixed to the bags and flasks with unbreakable wires. He took a step back, to see if he could snap those threads, but it was no use. “Put them away,” he said, his voice low and hungry, “Sherlock, put them away.”

“No,” Sherlock replied and started lining up some glasses from the cupboard purposely, eyes still on John. “If you need it I’ll handcuff you so you cannot harm yourself or me, but we _are_ doing this, John. We _need_ to.”

He took another step back and shook his head. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Sherlock put down the last glass and then strode toward him, “You’re doing it. You _have_ to do it,” he told him and then clenched his jaw with an expressive look in his scrutiny of him.

John shut his eyes, breathing through his nose and allowing the flat’s – _Sherlock’s_ – scent to calm him, feeling his eyes on him. “Put them away. So I can’t see them. We’ll do it one at a time.”

Breathing calmly, Sherlock took his arm in a light clasp and walked him through the kitchen, down the short corridor past the bathroom, and into Sherlock’s own bedroom, “I’ll bring them in to you,” he said, urging John down on the bed. The entire room smelt of Sherlock and nothing much else, the scent from the bathroom only slight from the connecting door at the side. Either that or John was getting used to the stink. “All right?”

John nodded; allowing himself to open his eyes again, and gave Sherlock’s arm a tight squeeze in thanks. Sherlock lingered, seeming hesitant and considering, and then he inclined his head, slipped from John’s grasp and left the room, shutting the door behind him. John listened to him walk back to the kitchen, heard him open one of the flasks with a discreet hiss of air, and then all he could hear, all he was able to focus on, was the contents being poured into a glass. He heard as Sherlock replaced the lid afterwards, put the flask down, and picked up the glass, making his way back to John with it. He paused, momentarily outside the door, and then entered, walking over.

John was immediately entranced, and he inhaled deeply through his nose as he grasped at the glass, the blood within still warm enough to let steam rise from its surface. He hummed in pleasure at its copper smell, and lifted the glass to his lips. It wasn’t quite like Sherlock’s blood – didn’t hold the same taste exactly – it tasted more of… pork. It tasted like the bacon and sausages should have, but more… _alive_. It was like the flavour was dancing on his tongue instead of just sitting there. It was _gorgeous_. And there wasn’t enough, barely a mouthful, if that.

“More,” John mumbled as he lowered the glass, “Please, Sherlock, more.”

“First tell me what you liked about it? What did it taste like?” Sherlock insisted, taking the glass away and hiding it behind his back. “Tell me. I’ll give you more.”

John blinked up at him, confused, then down at his empty hand. “More?”

Sherlock sighed and cupped his face with one hand, “John. I need you to _concentrate_. I need you to explain to me what you felt. What it _tasted_ like. What about it did you like?” he said slowly, locking eyes with him. “ _Look_ at me, John. _Look_ and _focus_.”

Slowly, John’s eyes rose to meet Sherlock’s and he smiled. “Like sausages… and bacon. It was… dancing… on my tongue. Was… was alive. Wassogood…”

“Stay here,” Sherlock ordered him sternly, retaining their eye contact for a moment before he left the room, shutting the door behind him. He came back moments later, after opening another flask, and held out another glass to him.

John took it eagerly, barely stopping to smell it and revel in its heat before tipping the pitiful amount into his mouth. This one was a little different. It was more… “Steak. Rare. Bloody,” he grinned, “Burgers. Like the pork. Dancing.”

Sherlock took the glass back and nodded, leaving in silence. This time, when he returned to the kitchen, John heard him put something in the fridge and then fiddle with plastic, filling two glasses this time. He put one in the microwave for a time, and John listened to Sherlock breathing and waiting until there was a high-pitched beep. He returned with the two glasses, giving John one of them with an emotionless face. The glass was cool to the touch and the blood contents just as cold, if not a touch colder.

John screwed his face up at it, disgusted and revolted by it, immediately handing it back. “That’s _wrong_.”

“Drink it,” Sherlock demanded, pushing it back toward him. “I need to know. This helps us. Helps _you_. _Drink it_.”

John glared down at it, but huffed, and lifted it to his lips, and, after a few moments, swallowed with a grimace. “Empty,” he explained, “Cold, broken. Slimy.” He shivered. “Ice.”

Sherlock took it back and handed him the other glass, which was warm to the touch, “And this?”

This one felt better, smelt better, but it wasn’t quite right. It held a promise of something stupendous, but this just tasted… “Flat. It’s been open too long.”

Sherlock left with both glasses and tried again twice more with more blood from the plastic bags, before he came back, holding one glass in his hand, “This?”

John perked up, staring at the glass intently as Sherlock passed it to him. He took a moment to savour the smell, and then sucked it into his mouth.  
It was so close to being perfect. _So close_. It was missing that kick those drops of Sherlock’s blood had given him, a bit of the spice and heat was gone, but it was just as smooth, just as sweet, just as savoury…

“This one’s m’favourite,” he said, looking into the glass.

Checking the time with fleeting glance and a shift of his weight, Sherlock took a deep breath, “Are you still hungry?” he asked casually.

“Starving,” John whispered as he tried to reach more of the blood in the glass with his finger.

Sherlock took it from him with a look and an arched brow, “Give me a moment,” he told him, leaving again and returning to the kitchen. He lingered there a minute and then quickly went down to Mrs Hudson’s flat, going in without a word and seemingly without a sound, judging from Mrs Hudson’s steady heartbeat. He came back out moments later, went back to the kitchen, poured more blood into something else, and then entered with a bowl half filled with blood and a few slices of bread. John rose to meet him and took a step towards him, eyes fixed on the steaming bowl as he licked his lips.

For a split second, it looked like Sherlock was going to chastise him, but instead he took a slice of bread, dipped it in the blood, and held it out to John, keeping the bowl the furthest away by turning his body aside, “Eat it.”

He looked longingly after the bowl for a moment, but then the bread dripped, and he moved to take it. John ate the whole thing, even the tasteless unsaturated bits, but it was almost like he was eating a sandwich, only the bread was stale and mouldy, and the meat was still tender and warm.

“Mouldy sandwich,” he mumbled as he chewed, then turned his attention back to the bowl again.

“Hm. Not keen then?” Sherlock asked him as he dipped in another slice, holding it out. “Can you deal with this? With the blood on food? – I have biscuits in my pocket for you to try…”

“If th’food tasted good…” John replied as he took the offered slice, managing to dribble some on his fingers as he at it and forcing him to lick them clean.

Sherlock watched him eat and then rummaged for a biscuit, dipping that and handing it to John, “Try this,” he said lowly.

John obliged and let out a noise of surprise. It was kind of like… “Pork scratching, but with beef.”

Suddenly stepping close, Sherlock then held out the entire bowl to him, “Slowly,” he told him with a booming voice that vibrated the air between them. “Otherwise I’ll have to feed you.”

John paused from where he was already reaching out, looking up at Sherlock for a moment and taking a breath before gradually taking the bowl from him. He wanted nothing more than to swallow it all as fast as he could, but he was determined to pace himself, though his arms shook a little from the restraint. Carefully, slowly, he raised it to his lips and drank.

Sherlock watched him intently, “Tell me how you feel afterwards,” he whispered.

John continued to tip the bowl, gulping the blood down and savouring its taste. Once he’d finished, he licked the bowl until it was clean, then wiped at his lips with his thumb, swiping any spillage into his mouth. He hummed, satisfied, yet unsatisfied. Dizzy, yet focused. Everything felt off balance, and yet so glaringly firm. He stumbled back, and sat with a heavy thump on Sherlock’s bed with a frown.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked him, moving over with an air of anxiousness.

“Everything’s both,” he explained.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed deeply and he shook his head, “Both?” he repeated, crouching near him. “What do you mean, both?”

“It’s all… it’s like…” John’s frown deepened as he tried to find an analogy. “It’s like, it makes sense, but it doesn’t. Like… like I don’t have… all the pieces yet.”

“…Are you hungry?” Sherlock asked after a brief but tense silence, taking the empty bowl from him.

He nodded. “But… ‘s not so bad any more.”

“Good,” Sherlock breathed and reached forward to unexpectedly touch John’s face, then his neck, checking his pulse. “I have more. And I can get more when you need it. You just need to tell me. All right?” He left his hand against John’s skin and swallowed, glancing off to the side. “You seem to like both animal and human blood. If it’s warm and fresh, that is.”

John leaned into Sherlock’s hand and sighed. “Warm…”

“As long as we can keep you from being hungry…” he trailed off and then very deliberately rubbed his thumb across the rough edge of John’s jawline. “John. _John_ , look at me – Come to me and tell me if you feel anything different. Anything wrong. _Anything_. All right? Do you hear me?”

John blinked at him, trying to focus. “Tell you when something’s wrong.”

Sherlock’s hand moved to cup the back of his head, “I want you to stay here. Until you can concentrate properly. _Stay here_. – I’ll check on you later.”

“M-kay,” John agreed, smiling at his friend.

“Lie down,” Sherlock told him, already in the motion of easing John back and turning him on his side. Sherlock’s hand stayed a comforting pressure on his head for a few prolonged seconds until he stepped back, pulled away and left the room.

John was quite happy to snuggle into the covers though, inhaling that now familiar scent of rosin and chemicals that combined to make Sherlock. It was comforting to have something so definite and full when everything else felt incomplete. He lay there for a long while, just breathing it in, tugging at the covers under his fingers when he felt the world shift every so often, and buried his face in Sherlock’s pillow when this became too much.

His stomach growled. He wanted more, but…He frowned. No. No he _didn’t_ want more, because that was _wrong_ . It was… it was so, so wrong, and yet…  
John gasped, a hand flying to his mouth as he sat up.

His gasp, it seemed, had been loud enough to penetrate the walls between the detective and him, and the door to the room swung open practically immediately as Sherlock stepped in with a look of alarm, moving to his side, “John? – _What_?”

“Why…” John all but whispered. “Why wasn’t that enough?” He looked at Sherlock, eyes wide in fear. “It… it wasn’t enough. But… How could I…? Sherlock?”

“Calm down,” Sherlock told him, reaching for him and then checking his pulse, his eyes, and lastly took hold of his head, forcing eye contact. “Are you hungry?”

John swallowed. “A bit… but… I don’t want to.”

“I know,” Sherlock breathed, keeping a grasp of him and leaning closer, “just calm down, all right?”

Taking hold of Sherlock’s wrists, he nodded briskly and closed his eyes, concentrating on slowing his speeding heart, and the hands on his face. Once his breathing had slowed, he opened his eyes again, and sighed. “I need a shower.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, “Sorry about that,” he murmured, rubbing his palms against the stubble on John’s cheeks. “I _will_ move our guest at some point.”

“I probably stink,” John commented, then smirked, peeking through his lashes. “You probably do too.”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock huffed with a blooming smile.

“Poor Mrs Hudson, having to put up with that.”

“Come now. She’s put up with far worse,” Sherlock told him, letting his hands drop to John’s shoulders after a bit. He gazed at John, a soft, apprehensive crease between his brows, and then straightened up. “Do you…want anything? – Anything other than a shower, that is?”

“Well, a shave would be a good place to start I suppose,” John replied, “And maybe some tea. If… it still tastes like tea, that is.”

“I’ll make it. Stay here. Please,” Sherlock said to him. He fetched John’s electric shaver first, handing it to him, and then left to make the tea. The scent of blood danced and swirled into the room behind him as he left.

John stared at the razor in his hand and sighed, lowering it to his lap as he waited for Sherlock to return. As much as he needed a shave, he would much rather have done it in the least painful way, which required washing his face, a feat he wasn’t sure he could accomplish without either being bombarded with blood or rotting body parts.

“Here,” Sherlock said on his reappearance, holding out a steaming mug in one hand while carrying a basin filled with warm water under his arm with the other. He had a towel slung over his shoulder and a bar of soap in his pocket, and he gave them all over as he put the basin down on the bed gently.

John smiled up at him as he set everything aside to hold the tea in both hands. “You know me so well.”

Sherlock shot him a quick and slight smile in return, he smelt of blood and his heart was a little fast, “I’d like you to stay here tonight. In this room. I won’t be using it.”

John blinked up at him, then moved his gaze to his tea. “Well, I suppose it would keep me from having to go past the kitchen…”

“It won’t be for long,” Sherlock assured him.

He nodded and took a sip of his tea, about to make another comment when he suddenly noticed the flavour – the perfect extra little kick that was just too more-ish to deny – and the sip turned into a gulp, which turned into several, which became an undignified, choking slurp as he finished the mug, gasping against pain of the scalding water as it burned his mouth, throat and stomach.

Sherlock had taken a few steps closer during his manic drinking, reaching out but too slow to stop him, and cringed, “Are you…all right?” he asked. “Perhaps I should have told you to go slow again…”

John blinked at him, confused, but then, slowly… “You put blood in my tea?”

“I’ll get you some cold water to sooth your throat,” Sherlock said instead of answering, turning to go. “And then I ought to check you over.”

“No,” John said firmly, managing to grab hold of Sherlock’s arm before he could leave. “No, Sherlock, you do not _do_ this to me, understand? After I explicitly _told_ you I didn’t want it, you trick me into drinking more!”

“It wasn’t a trick. You needed it! I was trying to help,” Sherlock replied, looking at John’s hold on his arm with the faintest of winces that was only noticeable by the flicker of his eyes. “You wouldn’t have had the tea, John. You would have hated it. You would have—” He cut his sentence off and lowered his gaze, shutting himself off and going instantly silent.

“You don’t know that,” John replied, his voice quieter now, “You might be doing the right thing, but it was also wrong of you to hide it from me.” Running a tongue over the roof of his mouth, he noticed that his digestive system didn’t hurt any more.

“I hide a lot of things from you,” Sherlock intoned, yanking out of John’s grip and taking a step back, looking detached.

“But this is _scaring_ me, Sherlock!” he cried, running a hand through his hair. “How am I supposed to prepare myself for… How can I understand this if you don’t tell me what’s going on? I don’t want to hurt you because I didn’t know what was happening.”

“You want to know what I’m doing?” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes and then shooting him a tight, condescending smile. “I’m saving you from Jessica’s fate. I’m working day and night for a way around this, for a cure! I’m keeping you focused, keeping you here, keeping you safe! I’m making sure you’re still you!” He let out a chocking sort of humourless laugh. “ _You’re_ scared, are you? – You’ve been trying not to think about this. You’ve been distancing yourself. You’ve been losing yourself to normality with Mrs Hudson. I’ve done none of these things. I’ve been constantly thinking about _this_ , working on _this_ , since the start!” Sherlock was very slightly shaking with his outburst and he blinked several times in quick succession. “How can you understand this if I _don’t_?” he whispered.

John blinked at him. He was right. He _had_ been distancing himself, keeping the situation at arm’s length. But Sherlock had delved into it head first, not taking a break since the whole mess had started and not for the sake of the experiment, but for _him_. And God did that make him feel like an ungrateful bastard. Sherlock was just as lost as he was – if not, more so – and still he was trying to help him.

John sucked in a breath, got up off the bed and stepped forwards, pulling Sherlock close to him and wrapping his arms around his back. “I know,” he whispered, “I’m sorry, it’s just… I lash out when…”

Sherlock stiffened at the embrace and was motionless for the span of two seconds before he lifted his arms cumbersomely, clinging to John with tight, digging fingers. He dropped his head to John’s shoulder after yet another few seconds and stayed like that, hunched and half slumped against him, with his hands fisted in John’s shirt.

With another shuddering breath, John raised a hand and began carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “I’m still here. I’m still me. I _promise_ you, I will fight this.”

Sherlock’s heartbeat was a rapid, passionate thumping, and he seemed to grip at John tighter at his words, slowing his breathing, “You better,” he muttered moments before he pulled back, gaze locked onto John’s face. He let John go with a drooping of his long arms and nodded, turning for the door. “Enjoy your shave,”

“I will,” John agreed. “Good luck.”

With a quick smile, Sherlock left, shutting the door slowly and quietly behind him, and making his way back to the kitchen. He stood still for three minutes once he was there, merely breathing, but then he shuffled and moved about with purpose. Taking that as a sign to keep himself busy, John turned back to the basin, and moved it in front of the mirror. Kneeling down, he finally examined himself. He didn’t look any different than normal. He had a few days’ worth of stubble, and he looked a little worn, but other than that, he looked exactly the same.

Running a hand over his cheek briefly, John turned back to the basin and, soap in hand, proceeded to wash and shave. It didn’t take more than twenty minutes, but once he’d finished, and his cheeks were free of a growing beard, John sighed in relief at the feeling of being fresh and clean again. At least partly anyway.

Unfortunately, once that chore had been finished, he found there was little else to do for the rest of the day. He probably should have asked Sherlock for a book or the newspaper, perhaps even his laptop so he could do some research of his own, but he didn’t want to disturb him now that he was working again.

And so the morning passed sluggishly, time ebbing away one moment at a time as John lounged around on Sherlock’s bed, listening to his flat mate’s workings and fidgeting, his heartbeat and breathing. Eventually though, ‘dinner time’ arrived, and John was asked to do more tests, these on his ability to resist.

It turned out that the answer was ‘not very well’, but he felt proud of the fact that he could keep himself from touching the glasses and bowls Sherlock would set down on the floor, and from guzzling it down if it was given to him. He couldn’t completely ignore it, but he could keep himself from sliding into that haze for a short period of time at least.

Sherlock smiled at him slightly, “Good,” he commended. “That’s good.”

John just nodded and smiled, his head lolling a little as he tried to keep himself from yawning. He failed, rather dramatically. “Excuse me,” he said, covering his mouth as it gaped wide.

Sherlock gave him another smile. “I shall fetch your pyjamas,” he said, watching John with a keen interest for a second. “How do you feel?”

John rubbed his face. “Tired. Like after a good meal.”

Inclining his head, Sherlock left and brought his pyjamas and dressing gown back with him, draping them over the end of the bed. He had also gotten John’s laptop and the novel he had been reading from his bedside. Placing them down, Sherlock stepped back, looked at him and then made to leave once more.

“Call me if you need me,” he said.

“I will,” John replied, smirking down at the things he’d been hoping for all day, but was now too tired to use. Sherlock bid him good night and shut the door, making the familiar and well-trodden route back to the kitchen.

After somehow managing to tumble into his bedclothes, John moved everything off the bed, and slithered beneath the covers with an exhausted sigh.


	5. Chapter 5

_“It could be dangerous,” the detective said with a grin, then turned with a dramatic whirl of his coat, and disappeared over the next sand dune.  
_ _John blinked after him, and followed instinctively, jumping over the dune-  
_ _-only to land in the alley around the corner from Baker Street. Red beads littered the floor, rolling aside when his feet came in contact with them, only to spread into a speckled mess of blood.  
_ _As he watched, the blood slowly pooled together, creating one huge puddle, and John could see his reflection within it. He could see dark liquid dripping from the corner of his mouth, and he drew his hand up to wipe it away.  
_ _However, arms encircled him from behind, one of the hands resting on his stomach and clutching at it, making it ache as the weight behind him pushed him forwards towards the puddle. He instinctively took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air, and he hit the ground, and sank through it, into a pool of red.  
_ _He couldn’t move, he could only watch the surface as he was dragged deeper below, his lungs screaming for air until--_

* * *

John woke with a groan, clutching tightly to his stomach when it felt like the daggers within were going to shred him to pieces. He buried his face in the bed, biting into the sheets to keep himself from biting his lip or the inside of his cheeks. When the pain stabbed him again, he cried out, curling deeper into himself.

Sherlock, as he had done before, came hurtling into the room in concern and a short shout of John’s name, “John. What? What’s wrong?” he asked, looking over with a frantic flit of his eyes. “John?”

As soon as he’d stepped in, John could smell it – that beautiful, spicy, cool texture that caressed his senses – and he _wanted_ it. Groaning, he rolled over and abruptly pulled Sherlock close, close enough that he could press his nose into his neck and breathe it in, feel it pulsing through his veins. “Sherlock…” he whispered, trying not to act on instinct, though not entirely sure why.

Stumbling into the edge of the bed a little, Sherlock braced himself on John with hot hands, “Let me go, John,” he said calmly, even as his heartbeat raced, fluttering strongly under the soft, thin skin of his throat. It was right there. Right under John’s nose. His mouth.

John shook his head, “I need… I need to…” he breathed in again and moaned, but still he held himself back.

Sherlock tensed, took a deep inhale, remained still for a second or two, and then strongly shoved John away, pinning him to the bed, “No,” he told him in grim upset, holding John down and looking him over, his expression crumpling and shuttering in rapid sequence. “John. John, _focus_.”

John tossed his head to the side, screwing his eyes shut against the never-ending, thundering, _agony_ , “It hurts. _It hurts_!”

Panting, Sherlock readjusted his hold, “What hurts? What?”

“Hungry,” he moaned. “Hurts, Sherlock…”

“Okay. All right— _Listen_ to me,” Sherlock told him, leaning down and then grabbing John’s chin roughly, “you said you’d fight. _You_ _promised_. So _fight_. And stay here. I’ll get something for you. All right?”

John frowned up at him, unable to remember any promises, anything more than the pain, “I don’t…” He closed his eyes again and tried to think, to concentrate and… “Fight… still me… _still me_ …”

Sherlock’s grip on his chin softened and then fell away, “Stay. Here.” he instructed with an edge to his voice, letting John go and almost sprinting out the room, slamming the door closed behind him.

As soon as he was gone, John flipped himself over to curl into a ball, tilting over his folded legs so that his head was buried in the mattress, his crossed arms pushing into his stomach and keeping the pain at bay as much as he could. All the while, he muttered and mumbled to himself, trying to make himself remember, to hold on, but he could feel his control slowly slipping between his fingers.

The smell was what hit him first, like many times before, and it was thick and heavenly and overpowering. The smell of blood increased as Sherlock was overheard pouring and heating and adjusting. It seeped under the door, crawled across the carpet, and climbed up the bed to spill over John like a dense, swirling fog. It was all he could do to keep himself from jumping off the bed and into the other room, but he managed to pull one of the pillows close and buried his nose in it, at least masking the aroma for a few precious seconds.

Sherlock entered the room again quickly, “John. John sit up,” he told him as he stepped close with such a strong gust of blood that it made John dizzy.

John rose onto his hands and knees and crawled to him, grasping a hold of Sherlock’s shirt once he was finally there. Sherlock was holding two flasks and he put one down on the bedside table, before shoving and manhandling John to sit on the edge of the bed. He then unscrewed the lid off the flask he held, pressed into John, arched John’s head back with one hand, and then pushed the open lip of the flask to his lips, which parted instantly on instinctive alone. Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose, held John’s head steady, and gently, carefully, poured hot blood into John’s mouth.

John immediately latched onto the flask, trying to tip it back further, faster, but Sherlock’s grasp kept him from doing so. He moaned in annoyance, and hummed in satisfaction and pleasure, the pressure in his stomach lifting by a fraction, but still incessantly strong. He drank it all – every drop he could reach – but still it wasn’t enough.

“Calm down,” Sherlock said in a low and calming timbre, and readjusted his grip on John’s head, giving his hair a tug to bring back some focus. He replaced the now empty flask for the other and unscrewed the lid, eyeing John calculatingly as he did so. Once again he lifted it to John’s lips and poured the blood over John’s tongue at a gradual, unhurried pace. “Slowly…”

As before, John clung to the flask as though his life depended upon it and steadily swallowed the sweet nectar, perhaps not as sweet as the first, but still blissfully wonderful. After he’d emptied it, he let his fingers fall from their grasp, and his head loll slightly, as he licked his tongue across his teeth.

Sherlock moved the flask away and then cradled his face, “John?” he whispered, trying to lock gazes with him.

John blinked several times; looking into those beautiful, changeable eyes, and grinned, “You smell like heaven.”

Huffing quietly in response, Sherlock released his hold of John but stayed close, “How are you feeling?” he asked and John reached out for his hands, pulling them up to cup his face again while he closed his eyes with a happy sigh. “Good. That’s good, John.” Sherlock breathed and stroked his thumbs over John’s cheeks gently.

There were some bout of silence and stillness between them, and then Sherlock pushed his forehead against John’s with a sigh, the curls of his fringe tickling John’s temples. John breathed him in, every inch, every spec, every molecule. He smelled the threads of the clothes Sherlock was wearing to the heady aroma of blood that clung to every inch of him. He wallowed in the sound of his breathing, of his steady, calm heartbeat, the rustle of his shirt, of his hair against his brow.

“Thank you,” he muttered after many long minutes, feeling more himself than he had since he’d woken.

Sherlock pulled back at the words and nodded, “I need you to explain to me what it felt like. The pain you were experiencing.”

John’s face wrinkled in remembered horror, and his fingers tightened around Sherlock’s. “It was… sharp, and constant. It burned, and it… it felt like my insides were being torn apart, or squeezed so tight I couldn’t breathe.”

Grimacing faintly, Sherlock nodded again and looked away, “I’m going to move her today,” he murmured. “I want you to stay in here until I do. Then you can have a bath.”

He nodded and swallowed, “I’m going to need more,” he said, “Soon. I can… I can feel it.”

“I’ll make sure to have some on standby then,” Sherlock assured him. “In the meantime, distract yourself. Read. Browse the web. Watch silly videos online.” He gave John a firm smile.

John nodded again and returned the smile, “Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s fingers flexed and he seemed almost reluctant to pull away completely, though he did so anyway, his eyes never leaving John’s face. Collecting the flasks he stepped out, closed the door, and walked, very sluggishly, away down the short hallway.

Taking a deep breath, John rubbed a hand over his face, the other falling to rest over his stomach. What he’d said had been true; he could feel himself growing hungry again, slowly creeping up even as he digested what had felt like a feast not minutes before. He moved off the bed and over to the basin still sat next to the mirror and washed his mouth, leaning back against the bed once he’d finished.

If this was how he was supposed to live from no on… He shook his head and reached for his book, refusing to linger on it, and delving into a fictional reality instead.

It wasn’t long before the sound of Sherlock moving to the bathroom and locking the door that adjoined to Sherlock’s room spiked John’s interest. Sherlock then walked to the bedroom door silently. He didn’t enter and he didn’t say anything, instead Sherlock softly thumped something under it, lodging what John quickly realised was a door wedge beneath to keep it closed.

“Sherlock?” he asked with a frown, putting his book aside.

“I have to go for a few moments,” Sherlock’s muffled voice told him.

“So you…” John cut himself off, thinking about why Sherlock would have effectively trapped him in his room. Mrs Hudson. She was still downstairs, and he wouldn’t have enough control if Sherlock weren’t there to remind him. “Alright,” he said instead, picking up his book again, “I’ll… see you in a bit, yeah?”

Sherlock lingered a second, “Yes,” he replied, leaving without another word.

Once he heard the door shut downstairs, John returned to his book with a sigh. Minutes began dissolving into one another after that as he lost himself in his novel, managing to ignore the increase in pain for several chapters, long enough for Mrs Hudson to be up and about and humming some old tune under her breath as she got ready for the day. But then a sudden stab caused him to gasp, and he dropped his book as he doubled over, pressing his hands against his stomach. He groaned, listening to the tortuous sound of his Landlady’s heartbeat and the rush of her veins from below. He pulled the bed sheets from the bed to keep himself from tearing through the floorboards, and stuffed some of it in his mouth to stop himself from crying out.

The need and gnawing desire came in flooding, relentless waves, becoming stronger with each passing second. It twisted in his gut and throbbed through his head like talon fingers, pushing and gripping and tearing and mauling. There was a moment where he jerked so violently that he ended up surging up and falling back down hard, and the way the floor rushed up to meet his back reminded him suddenly of the nightmare, of the bloodied puddle and his reflection with its stained mouth.

He didn’t know how long he lay there after that, shivering in a mess of nerves and barely held back desire, but every second of it was agony. He started gasping, like a man drowning, after some time, sucking in the air and soaking up everything and anything he could. He didn’t, for one second, turn away from the wall though, knowing that if he saw even a glimpse of the doors, he’d be ramming them down in seconds.

The sound of the front door opening and closing was extremely loud in the next agonising second, as were Sherlock’s footsteps as he raced up stairs and strode to the bedroom door, “John?” he asked as he pulled away the wedge from under it and stepped in. He was holding an arm full of flasks, more than he had previously, and he quickly put all but one down as he rushed to John’s side.

“M-m-more?” he asked as Sherlock sunk down beside him, too afraid of what he’d do if he let go of the sheets.

“Come here,” Sherlock mumbled, grabbing him and dragging him up into his arms and against his chest, sitting him up awkwardly into his body. He was still wearing his coat, and it surrounded John in a dark, rumple of thick material that smelt of blood and Sherlock and air.

“Sh-Sher-l-lock,” John moaned, reaching down his arm for the flask with shaky fingers. “P-plea-please…”

Sherlock adjusted him aside and then extended one hand for it, unscrewing it deftly, “I know,” he whispered and made sure John’s head was in a better position as he brought it up to his mouth, holding him tightly. Cradling him like one would a baby.

He swallowed the flowing blood eagerly, fisting his hand in Sherlock’s coat so he could push himself higher, to reach more, even as it was poured down his throat. It was hot, better, tastier, so full of what he needed. When he finished the flask, and the agony inside him soothed to a painful ache, he fell against Sherlock’s chest.

Stretching for one of the other flasks immediately, Sherlock stroked a hand over John’s forehead, “More?” he asked, already unscrewing the top and holding the flask aloft. Instead of answering, John just reached for it, his hand much more steady now, and allowed Sherlock to help him drink. He only drank half of this one, but he was thoroughly sated, and was content to push it away once he’d had his fill.

Sighing, Sherlock put it down and then pushed his temple into John’s head, still holding him with a loosening grip, “London traffic is abysmal,” he groused in apology.

John hummed in agreement, unable to do anything more for now, and Sherlock sat with him silently, putting the lid back on the flask with a languid looking twist. He breathed against John, keeping their heads together, and picked absentmindedly at his trouser leg in the following, drifting seconds of stillness between them.

After a while, John batted his hand away with a scowl, “Stop that. You’ll ruin them.”

Huffing, Sherlock turned to give him a sideways glance, staring at him quietly as John continued to glare at his hands for another few moments, before looking away. “I could hear her,” he said, “Downstairs. I could hear the blood pumping through her veins.”

Sherlock shifted and then breathed deep, “Noted,” he murmured, not sounding at all pleased at the new information. Sherlock looked tired and gaunt, his skin pale and lips a little cracked. His eyes, however, were still as bright and sharp as ever, only softened at the edges due to the languid positioning of how they were propped up together.

John bowed his head in shame, eyes burning with the onset of tears, “This is all my fault.”

“Must I repeat what you lectured me about self-blame?” Sherlock said, tightening his hold again to clutch at John’s pyjama sleeve.

He chuckled wetly, “Probably,” he sniffed, “I’m feeling a little sorry for myself right now.”

Clearing his throat, Sherlock tilted his head with a curl of his mouth, “She’s dead, this happened, and it’s done. It’s done. No ifs or buts. It happened the way it did, and we can’t question what would have happened if it hadn’t. You can’t blame yourself for something you can’t control. You didn’t know… You wouldn’t have let someone suffer like that if you’d known.” he said in a rumble, quoting what John had said almost perfectly, only he changed it a bit to suit the situation.

John chuckled again. “I know how to make a good speech, don’t I?”

“Well, you _are_ a doctor. It’s your job to lecture people,” Sherlock teased with a puff of laughter.

“True, true,” he grinned. His eyes fell on the flask a moment later, and his face fell as he drew his knees closer. “I can’t believe she did this alone.”

“Don’t think about it,” Sherlock told him with some bite, obviously sore at the change in subject.

John nodded and pushed into him a little more, “Where are you getting it all? The animal blood I mean. Is there some… Abattoir somewhere in London I didn’t know about?”

“I have some connections,” Sherlock replied lightly, turning his head so their hair intermingled. “I went to Silvertown.”

John scoffed. “Of course you have connections. You’re almost as bad as your brother with how far your web reaches.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Sherlock snorted with amusement. “And I’d not actually call it a ‘web.’”

“Network then,” he retorted before pulling himself off the floor. Looking around the room, John found that he’d managed to tip several things over, including the nightstand, in his… struggle. “I’m surprised Mrs Hudson didn’t come up with all the racket I must have made.”

“She’s used to noise from the flat,” Sherlock told him with a lopsided grin that faded quickly.

“Well,” John flushed, rubbing the back of his head, “Sorry about the mess. I’ll uh, clean it up in just a minute.”

Sherlock gave a dismissive shrug, “I don’t care,” he said on a sigh.

“Still, it’s the least I could do,” John insisted, holding out a hand so he could help Sherlock up.

Taking it gently, Sherlock stood and then began picking up all the flasks again, tucking them under his arm, “Put everything back the way it was, then. Don’t reorganise things like you did in the living room. Everything is in its rightful place.”

“Yes, alright,” John replied, righting the lamp and picking up the pillows. “Am I going to stay in here, or…”

“Yes. Until I’ve moved Jessica. Which hopefully won’t take me long,” Sherlock told him.

John frowned, “Do you think you could fetch my earphones then. I… don’t really want to hear that.”

Sherlock exhaled with annoyance but nodded, “Fine,” he said.

“Sorry,” John smirked, “but you’re the one who said I had to stay in here. Next to the bathroom.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock huffed, shutting the door behind him as he went.

John chuckled after him and returned to his tidying. It didn’t take as long as he’d been expecting, most of everything really having only been knocked over or off something, though he decided that the bed cover could probably do with a good wash, so he stripped the duvet and threw the sheet in the corner.

“Here,” Sherlock said, appearing at the doorway a minute later and throwing over John’s earphones, a bone saw in his other hand.

John barely caught them as he struggled with the idea of the bone saw and gulped. Yes, he was quite glad he'd asked for these. “Uh… be careful?”

Sherlock shot him a quick smile with an odd look in his eyes and then disappeared again, entering the bathroom. There was the sound of melting ice moving against each other as Sherlock evidently reached into the bath and shifted and pushed at the body, before there was the faintest sound of a blade slicing through soft, dead flesh.

Though John was used to hearing such sounds, they were not usually so loud, or so vivid, and they sent a shudder through his spine. He plugged his earphones into his computer quickly and turned on some music, turning the volume slowly up from mute so he wouldn’t overload his eardrums. Again.

He spent the next however-long going through various web pages and articles, looking for news stories of attacks or disappearances, but, as Sherlock had said, there was no word of any attacks, and he wasn’t as good at figuring out causes of disappearances as Sherlock was, so he ended up giving that up as a lost cause. He didn’t even try looking up his condition, knowing it would be beyond hopeless to find even a slither of truth in the deluge of ‘information’.

Although he didn’t exactly hear Sherlock come into the bedroom, he did smell him, as he smelt so strongly of bleach, and he did sense him, and so turned his head, tugging out one earphone, “It’s all yours,” Sherlock told him, looking worn out and sweaty.

Looking over at the bathroom door, John gave Sherlock a smile, and stepped over to it, leaving his laptop on the bed. Opening the door, he slowly inhaled, and sighed in relief when all he could smell was bleach.

“You’d better have one too,” he said as he went to retrieve his towel from beside the mirror, “I don’t doubt you’ve been feeling disgusting for a few days now.”

“I haven’t the time,” Sherlock replied, slinking back to the kitchen after pushing his hair from his face.

John wrinkled his nose after him, but left him to it, much more interested in getting himself clean. Being able to use the bathroom again was heavenly. It was easy enough to ask Mrs Hudson if he could use her loo, but a shower was a personal thing, and, having taken Sherlock’s advice, a bath was not meant to be shared.

Relaxing into the bubbles, John sighed as he scrubbed what felt like layers of grime off his skin, letting himself soak for what was probably too long, but he really didn’t care. He’d needed this. Unfortunately, his stomach started growling before he could get too comfortable, and John pulled himself out of the warm water quickly, hoping to catch it before it got too bad. A few minutes later, he was back in his pyjamas, his dressing gown wrapped around his waist, and heading for the kitchen.

Sherlock looked up from his work, checked the time as if to make a note of how long it had been, and gave John a quick once over as he got out a flask, “Sit down,” he told him.

John obliged, watching Sherlock with wary enthusiasm, “How long?”

“Two and a half hours,” Sherlock answered, pouring blood into a mug and then quickly putting it into the microwave. He kept a cautious eye on John as it heated, barely blinking.

John’s stomach grumbled again as he watched the microwave, and he winced a little when the first sharp stab pierced his gut, and he squeezed it with his hand. “Is that good?”

Sherlock shifted his stance, “I want you to try some food as well. A biscuit. Just one. All right?”

“Yeah,” John nodded, trying to ignore how he’d refused to answer the question, “Alright.”

With a nod, Sherlock slid one whole biscuit toward him, turning to the microwave when it finally beeped, “Try and focus and concentrate. Go slow,” he told John, placing the heated blood in front of him.

John stared down at the both of them for several moments, taking the time to try and find a way past the haze that was gathering again, but he couldn’t concentrate enough to grasp any other idea than ‘slowly’. Pulling the mug closer, he dipped the biscuit in for a good, long soak. The result was a soggy, strange mess that tasted like blood and the consistency of cookie dough. The other half of the biscuit he dipped in the mug for a few seconds. This one had an extra layer of sawdust added to the flavour, but the texture reminded him of pork scratching, like the night before.  
Once he’d finished the biscuit, he just sipped at the mug until it was empty, and then set it back on the table, breathing evenly until he could think coherently.

“Good,” Sherlock announced with a hum.

John scowled at the mug, “I can’t concentrate when that happens.”

“Mm - Somewhat,” Sherlock said with a tilt of his head, walking around to stand beside him. “You have enough state of mind to do as I say, which means you _are_ concentrating, at least on some level.”

He sighed, “I suppose.”

“Fight, remember,” Sherlock reminded him, taking the mug away and walking to the flask again. “Another mug full?”

“Please,” John agreed, turning away from what Sherlock was doing to keep himself in control. It didn’t prevent the smell from getting at him though, and he could already feel himself going lax. Gritting his teeth, he tried to stomp down on that feeling.

When Sherlock gave him the steaming mug again, he stepped up to his side and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, “I suppose it’s a good thing we both aren’t squeamish,” he said to lighten the mood.

Unfortunately, John was too preoccupied to give him anything more than a hum for an answer as he raised the mug to his lips. Slow. _Slow_. He lowered the mug before he could taste it, and blew on it instead, as though it were a cup of tea, and then, only then, he sipped at it, setting it back on the table after a mouthful. It fizzled through him, warming and filling.

Sherlock’s hand patted him awkwardly and he wandered off to note something down on his notepad, “I’m rather pleased you are fine with animal blood,” he said as he wrote. “It would have been quite challenging to get human. Not impossible. Just, difficult.”

“Tastes better though,” John found himself saying as he brought the mug back up again.

“Apparently only when it’s fresh,” Sherlock said to him while he quirked his brow and lifted his gaze. “When frozen, it’s empty. Cold. Broken. Slimy. And when heated, it’s flat. Like it’s been open too long.” He cocked his head. “You adore it when it’s fresh.”

“Alive,” John simply stated, taking another swallow.

“Unless I do something unspeakable,” Sherlock went on, straightening and keeping his eyes on John, “I’m afraid you’re left with it being mine.”

He hummed in agreement, but then, after a few seconds of mulling it over in his mind, he set the mug down firmly and gave Sherlock a glare. “No.”

“You favour it,” Sherlock shrugged. “And I don’t mind giving you some.”

“No,” he repeated instead, then looked down at his half-finished mug, “Too much.”

“If you need it, then you’re having it,” Sherlock said as if that was the end of it.

John continued to stare down at the mug. “… ‘Mergencies.”

Sherlock didn’t agree or disagree with what John said and looked back down at his notes idly, “You’ll sleep in my room again tonight.”

John hummed and sipped the blood again. “You?”

Frowning, Sherlock exhaled through his nose, “I’m busy.”

“ _Sleep_ ,” John told him, setting the mug down again, now finished.

“ _Busy_ ,” Sherlock shot back.

He shook his head, shaking off the last vestiges of the haze, “You need… to sleep. You’ll get sick.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Sherlock retorted. “I’d work regardless – All that matters, is looking into this. Just _this_. – I need to find out where Jessica went. Where she got this infection. I also need to find out if I can create some sort of antidote, if I can cure it. If there is a way to reverse what’s happened and prevent more changes.”

“Your mind might be working a mile a minute – probably faster knowing you – but your ‘transport’ will get seriously damaged if you don’t stop and sleep!” John argued. “Have you started experiencing hallucinations yet? Because you will if you keep this up.”

Sherlock glowered, “I will not waste the time I could be using for better things, more significant things, by snoozing.”

“No, Sherlock, you _have_ to sleep!” John exclaimed, “I will tie you to your bed if I have to, but I will not have you… collapsing on me while I’m… while I’m…” He deflated, resting his head in his hands. “I’m dangerous, Sherlock. If you end up…”

Sherlock closed his notepad with a sudden and loud slap of his hand, leaning on the table, “Amazing,” he said with an unpleasant sort of smile, “You really can be an idiot, John. – How can you sit there and claim to be ‘dangerous’ when you are telling me to sleep? Surely if that’s how you look at it, if that’s how you see yourself, then wouldn’t me sleeping be just as ‘hazardous’ as if I were to work myself weak, to collapse? Let’s say I do sleep. Let’s say I have a lovely little rest on the sofa. What happens when you wake up and you’re hungry? What then, John? If you’re so ‘dangerous’ then wouldn’t that be not good?” His voice was sneering but his lips were a shaking line when he pressed them together. “Thinking about that now are you? Imagining it? You really think that you’re a danger to me? _Me_? You honestly believe that you’d want something to quench that ache so badly that you’d follow the sound of my heartbeat, of my blood, to where I’m resting, lean over me and satisfy your cravings with one bite? _God_ , you _do_ , don’t you? That’s what you think, isn’t it? – You’re an idiot!” Sherlock moved around to John. “You would _never_ do that. Whether I were to faint or choose to sleep. You’d _not_ do it – And I don’t have to sleep, John. What I have to do, is _work_. I will not collapse. I know my limits. I’m taking short…breaks to combat it.”

John stared up at him in horror, not because of what he was saying, but because he _could_ imagine it, vividly. He could see himself standing over Sherlock as he slept, could see how he would lick his lips and growl at the thought of the feast before him. He could see himself tearing into his best friend in a fit of insanity, and then break apart when he realised what he’d done. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t. Not _ever_.

Taking a deep, shaking breath, he stood from the table, his chair clattering back onto the floor, and fled the room. He all but ran up the stairs, into his bedroom, and tore at the drawers from his cabinet, splintering the wood. He was gasping, crying, shaking, but he stilled when his hand found the cold, familiar handle of his gun.

“No!” Sherlock bellowed from behind him, having instantaneously followed with a fumble. “Don’t you _dare_. Put that down. John. _Now_. I mean it!” He held out a hand and took a few steps further into the room. “ _Don’t_. John…”

“Why?” he asked, his voice filled with tears as he stared down at the pistol, wrapping his fingers around the handle, “I’m _killing_ you Sherlock. I _could_ kill you. I won’t let myself do that. I won’t.”

“You do this and you _will_ kill me,” Sherlock told him with a sudden wet scoff, getting closer to him. “Put it down.”

John frowned, then looked up at his friend, trying to wrap his head around what he’d just said, “Sherlock?”

“Put it _down_ ,” Sherlock repeated and motioned to the gun as he got one step closer, his hand still outstretched. “Please.” John looked back at the pistol again, playing with the feel of the trigger under his finger. “John… _please_ ,” Sherlock said again and John gasped, his fingers going limp and the gun falling from his hand and dropping into the piles of clothes below. A sob escaped, and he felt the dam break.

Sherlock grabbed him roughly and yanked him away, turning him around so fast that John almost tripped over, “Don’t _ever_ try doing that again,” he said with a deep scowl, his eyes wet and his chin rumpled in emotion. He searched John’s face and then dug his fingers into John’s arms. “What I said – It _won’t_ happen. _Ever_. You think it will. You say these _stupid_ things about being dangerous to me, but you’re not. You could never be. Do you hear me? _Never_ – I only said what I did to show you how stupid you were being! You’ve had ample time, John, to do what you fear you might do. Two times you’ve been lost to pain and want, been close to my skin, my neck. _Twice_. Not once did you harm me. You listen to me. You _focus_ on me. You know me. You would _never_ hurt me.”

“But I could see it,” he sobbed, “I could see it. I-I _wanted_ it. I wanted… but I can’t… Sh-Sherlock, how can you trust me?”

“Because I…” Sherlock trailed off and his gaze flickered, focus shifting as he only dug his fingers into John’s arms harder. He let out an insecure breath through his nose and then swallowed. “You trust _me_ when you shouldn’t. There are far more things against me than against you. I lie and deceive and manipulate. There’s nothing honourable about me, yet…here you are. – How could I _not_ trust you?”

John looked up into his eyes, “You’ve never lied to me. Not once. No one will ever convince me that you have.”

Sherlock flexed his grip on John, silently breathing with him, and then paused, “It’s…not even loaded, is it?” he randomly muttered, frowning and then looking over at the gun.

“Cartridge is in the wardrobe,” John replied, following his gaze.

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a deep exhale, glancing back at his hands on John and quickly letting him go. “Right. Well…”

He scrubbed a hand over his face and let loose a shaky sigh, “I’m sorry.”

“Good,” Sherlock replied and then grimaced, looking away. “Me too.”

Giving him a small smile, John knelt down and picked up the gun, then, taking it by the barrel, he extended it towards Sherlock, “I think you should take this. For now.”

“If you try it again, I will punch you in the face,” Sherlock promised, taking the gun to glare down at it. “I don’t know why you think that would have helped matters. You’re an idiot.” He gripped the gun until his knuckles turned white. “A _big_ one.”

“So you keep telling me,” he muttered with a light smirk, turning around and folding his arms at the mess he’d made. “I suppose I’d better clean this up then.”

“All right,” Sherlock replied, still glaring down at the gun as he abruptly turned and left the bedroom, descending the stairs slowly.

John just stared at everything for a good, long while thoughts flickering over everything that had happened. He hadn’t had a moment like that in a long time – not since before he met Sherlock – but this time he had help putting it down. He wasn’t sure if he’d have been able to otherwise.  
And wasn’t that a terrifying thought? Knowing you’d give up your life so that you wouldn’t harm others. Harm _him_. And then to find out that it would hurt him more if you did…

John sniffed and knelt down, collecting his clothes and piling them up and examining the cabinet. He groaned at the damage, knowing he’d have to replace the whole thing. At least it had been a cheapy Ikea flat-pack thing, easy enough to replace. He ended up putting his clothes back in his drawers, and stacking the drawers on top of one another. He found the splinters easily enough, and just threw them in the bin. Once all of that was finished, he sighed and headed downstairs again.

Sherlock was standing over his microscope like nothing had happened, his attention fixed and his fingers curled lightly around the dials. He looked poised and distant and calm, but his heartbeat picked up the moment John entered the room. It was obvious he was still affected by what had happened; yet he didn’t say a word. John watched him for a few moments, and then stooped to pick up the chair, setting it straight and then sitting down, folding his hands in front of him. The mice squeaked and rummaged and drank in their cage, filling the stillness between them.

“You are allowed to watch the television, you know,” Sherlock told him after another couple of minutes.

“I know, but I just thought…” John rubbed at his arm. “It’s been a while since you last took a sample, and I thought you’d need that.”

Sherlock paused and lifted his head, “That’s true,” he agreed, considering it and then checking the time. He stepped away from the microscope and dug out a syringe. “…I still want you to sleep in my room tonight.”

John just nodded and rolled up his sleeve, “As long as you keep taking those ‘breaks’ of yours.”

“Fine,” Sherlock granted, wiping the crease of John’s arm with antiseptic after he’d secured a tourniquet.

John watched, this time, keeping an eye on his skin as the needle pierced it, as his blood pooled and dribbled once it had been removed (odd that it didn’t affect him at all), and then, in a few seconds, how it closed, leaving no trace that it had ever occurred.

Sherlock hummed and strolled away to store the blood, “Thank you,” he murmured, though whether it was for the blood or something else entirely, John didn’t know. It wasn’t often Sherlock said thank you, though he did say it more to John, and genuinely too, more than he did with many other people.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, swiping at the blood with his thumb and bringing it up to his nose. Odd. It smelled like blood – like all the other kinds he’d smelt – but it held no allure, no promise.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked him once he’d noticed what John was doing.

He shrugged, “It doesn’t really smell interesting.”

“Good. Means you won’t feast on yourself,” Sherlock said and clenched his eyes together for a second, rubbing his temples. “Your blood isn’t the same anymore. It’s _different_. Therefore it’s bound to taste and smell different too.” He combed back his oily curls. “Plus, it’s yours. It’s like enjoying your own scent. It’s just there. It’s just you. There’s nothing interesting or exciting about it. – Other people’s scents, however…” He motioned with his hand to further emphasis his point.

John nodded in understanding, though was a little disgusted at the thought of ‘feasting on himself’. Instead of thinking about it, he rose, and put the kettle on, pulling a mug out of the cupboard and dropping a tea bag and several spoonful’s of sugar into it. “Makes sense.”

Sherlock blinked at him and then huffed, “I don’t recall asking for a cup of tea,” he said sardonically.

“No, but you’re getting one anyway,” John replied, pouring the boiling water into the ceramic container. Once he’d finished stirring and had disposed of the tea bag, he set it on the table next to Sherlock’s elbow and folded his arms. “You’ve got a headache. You need to drink something. I made tea.”

Looking down at it and then up at John, Sherlock sighed, “It’s barely a headache,” he grumbled. He picked it up and seemed to be amused and secretly delighted that John had so easily chosen his favourite mug.

“But it’s still a headache,” John replied, turning away to hide his smirk as he gathered a mug of his own for some water.

He heard rather than saw Sherlock take a quick sip, and then another, “You’re a headache,” Sherlock retorted with a playful tone under his breath.

“I suppose that makes you a brain tumour then,” John retorted as he turned around, sipping at his water – thank God he could drink it – as he leaned against the counter.

Sherlock shot him a mock-offended look and then hid his blooming smile behind the rim of his mug, taking another sip as he turned to his microscope, “Brain tumours are interesting at least.”

John just shook his head in amusement, and moved into the living room to watch some daytime TV. It was somewhere in the middle of an episode of Bargain Hunt, almost three hours later, that he felt the beginnings of _that_ ache. His ears attuned to the heartbeats of the mice, of Sherlock, and Mrs Hudson as the need grew rapidly. Huffing in protest, he pushed himself to his feet and made his way into the kitchen.

At first it looked like Sherlock was merely incredibly focused on something he’d written in his notepad, but on closer inspection John saw that Sherlock was hunched over with his nose inches from the pages, eyes open but distant and lips parted. It was similar to how he was when he’d withdrawn into his mind palace, only he was breathing a little differently. John pinched the bridge of his nose, realising what it was he was looking at. When Sherlock had said he took ‘breaks’, he had assumed that he took a kip on the sofa or something, but no. Apparently, what Sherlock considered a ‘break’ was to, in a way that John understood it, leave the car with the engine running.

“Un-believable,” he muttered to himself, deciding to try and do things without him. Not that he was really expecting much success, but he was going to give it a damn good go anyway.

Walking past his flatmate, John approached the flasks he had been ignoring since he’d realised they were there, took hold of one of them, and took a deep breath. As soon as the lid was off, he felt himself lose a serious amount of ground, and he dropped the cap onto the floor, covering his face and shutting his eyes to give himself a chance to regain some semblance of control.

Sherlock’s breathing stuttered at the noise and then seemed to pause, “John!” he hissed, moving over to grab John’s arm and pull him back and away quickly. John stumbled into Sherlock’s chest and was swung around on his heels. “You idiot!”

“Had to try…” John said, “Didn’t want to disturb.”

“Sit down,” Sherlock ordered even as he manhandled John into the seat himself. With a sigh, Sherlock moved away with the flask, picking up the lid from the floor and grabbed for the nearest mug, which just so happened to be his own. It was thankfully empty and Sherlock filled it with blood without hesitation, putting it into the microwave to heat up.

John frowned at it, “That was your mug.”

“There’s been worse in it than blood, believe me,” Sherlock replied without looking at him.

He moved his gaze to Sherlock’s back, “Where do you go?”

Frowning, Sherlock looked at him over his shoulder, “Go?” he repeated, his eyes fluttering barely a second later in comprehension. “Nowhere.” He turned to look back at the microwave.

“But you’re not here.”

“Stop being ridiculous,” Sherlock mumbled, tilting his head backwards an inch. “Why are you asking? What does it matter?”

“That’s not resting, Sherlock,” he replied quietly.

“It’s enough,” Sherlock told him curtly, glancing at him.

John shook his head, “No, it’s not. From what I can see, it’s like leaving your body on standby. It still uses up energy.”

Sherlock didn’t respond and took the mug out once it was done, handing it to John, “Go back to your inane television shows,” he said dismissively, adding something to his notes.

Unable to reply, John just picked up the mug and slowly sipped at it, one mouthful at a time as he watched Sherlock work. Once he’d finished, he placed the mug on the table, his fingers still wrapped around it. “More, please?”

“All right. Oliver Twist,” Sherlock mumbled with a good-humoured look at John’s face when he took the mug and filled it up again. John giggled slightly, fiddling with his dressing gown a little as he waited, though he still watched carefully.

The silence that descended between them as they both waited was half comfortable and half tensed, and Sherlock kept his head angled to keep John in his peripheral vision until the microwaved beep again. He glanced in at the warmed blood for a second and then leaned over to place it before John, turning the handle towards him. John licked his lips as he pulled it into his hands, wrapping his fingers through the handle and keeping it steady on the other side. Once more, he slowly sipped at it, pausing every so often to let it settle in his stomach before continuing on. It took a little over five minutes for him to finish this time.

Sherlock had spent that time hunched over his slides, vials, notes and equipment, always moving and always busy. The small respite hadn’t changed much. He still looked haggard and tired and gaunt and sweaty, yet his hands were steady and sure as they moved and his eyes were focused, as if they were separate from the rest of him.

Washing the mug, John decided that, although Sherlock did look attentive, he looked far too sickly for his liking, and so, once he’d put the mug on the draining board, he walked behind Sherlock, and wrapped his arms around him, keeping the man’s limbs locked inside his grasp.

“…What are you doing?” Sherlock asked him in confusion, shifting his stance and looking back.

“Use your skills of observation,” he replied, and started backing towards the hallway, dragging his clearly exhausted flatmate with him.

Sherlock went with him for a dozen or so steps and then dug his heels in, tensing up and trying to grab hold of the counter, disturbing the cage of mice, “Let go,” he told John, scrambling for purchase.

“Nope,” John replied, and easily pulled Sherlock away.

“This is stupid. Let me go.” Sherlock grunted through his teeth, hooking a foot around a chair and dragging it noisily with him as he arched and struggled. “Leave me!”

John groaned at the childishness, but continued on regardless. “No! You have to rest, Sherlock!” He had reached the doorway to the short corridor now, wincing all the way as the chair dragged along the floor.

Sherlock flailed for the doorframe, digging his fingers in uncomfortably as he huffed through his nose, “This achieves nothing! – Let me go!” His fingernails scraped and bent as he increased his hold, his nose crunching up in effort, and the chair knocked suddenly into a counter with a loud bang.

John huffed in annoyance, then tugged him back with one strong heave, trying not to think of what was happening to Sherlock’s fingers, “I’m not letting you push yourself like this any longer,” he groaned, “This is getting ridiculous!”

“And how, pray tell, are you going to force me to sleep? – You _can’t_. So if anything is ridiculous, it’s _this_! It’s _you_! Let. Me. _Go_ ,” Sherlock argued, bucking his body as his foot slipped away from the chair, toppling it to the floor. His head knocked against John’s slightly as he struggled, his heartbeat racing, but John continued. As John towed him away he hit and scratched fruitlessly at the hallway walls whenever he was close enough and kicked his feet up to try and push John off balance.

“If you just stopped for a few minutes, you’ll be dead to the world,” John retorted. Though delayed slightly by Sherlock’s attempts, he carried on, and eventually came to Sherlock’s bedroom door. Looking over his shoulder at the bed, he noticed that he hadn’t replaced the duvet cover. But that was neither here nor there now. It would have to do.

Panting but trying not to show it, Sherlock continued his struggling, pushing up from the floor suddenly to try and reach for the top of the doorframe with his feet, pushing all his weight onto and into John in an attempt to shove him to the ground. His toes knocked and fumbled as he tried to gain traction, and he bent his body in a supple but exceedingly awkward way, shoving and kicking as his legs fell back down with a thump.

Unfortunately for him, John, after managing to shift himself to hold Sherlock’s weight, simply twisted and, using the momentum Sherlock’s shove had given him, landed on the bed in a heap, Sherlock still clutched in his arms.

Sherlock took a moment to look up at his bedroom ceiling, breathing heavily, and then began squirming to try and slip out of John’s hold, “Let go,” he muttered as he moved, jerking his torso this way and that.

“No,” John wheezed, rolling over onto his side so that he was spooning Sherlock against him. After another few moments of writhing, kicking his legs, twisting his chest, and arching, Sherlock began to gasp quietly but rapidly, almost hyperventilating, his heartbeat thundering from his obvious exhaustion.

John kept his hold, hands splayed across Sherlock’s chest, rising and falling with it, and he moved his head so that his mouth was next to his ear, “It’s okay,” he soothed, “You can sleep. Everything else can wait. It will all be here when you wake up.”

“No,” Sherlock replied, turning his face into the bed. “I can’t sleep – I don’t _want_ to sleep!”

“But you need it,” John replied in the same, calm tone, “You won’t have to fight against your body to keep going.”

“I don’t _care_ ,” came his muffled response as he finally stopped moving, his legs going limp. “Let me go…”

John shook his head, “I’m not leaving,” he replied, leaning his head against the back of Sherlock’s.

Going silent for several minutes, Sherlock regained control over his breathing and heart rate, and then shifted slightly, “I can’t sleep,” he whispered. “I _can’t_. Please just let me go. – I need to _work_.”

“I’m not letting go until you rest,” he repeated, his grip loosening a little, though he remained tense and ready, just in case.

“I can’t!” Sherlock unexpectedly shouted.

John’s grip tightened on his shirt briefly, but then he forced himself to relax again, “Why not? Explain it to me.”

Sherlock shook his head and then laughed shortly, sombre and somewhat hysterical, “Just let me go.” John merely tightened his grip in his shirt and shook his head, entwining their legs together as though that would keep him from moving.

“…This is stupid,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Stupid or not, neither of us is leaving until you rest.”

“Until you’re hungry again, you mean. You’ll need to leave then. As will I. – I _won’t_ sleep.” Sherlock told him.

“Then I suppose I’ll be keeping you here for the next three hours or so,” John retorted with a shrug, “Since you won’t be able to do anything anyway, you might as well get some shut eye.”

Sherlock sighed sharply, “No.”

That made him frown, “Are you… afraid of falling asleep?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, though his heartbeat stuttered very marginally at the lie.

“Oh Sherlock…” John sighed, burying his nose in his shoulder. “Why?”

“ _Please_ just let me go,” Sherlock muttered.

He shook his head, moving one of his hands up impulsively to thread his fingers through Sherlock’s greasy hair, “Never.”

Sherlock took a shaky low breath in at the touch, “It’s imperative.”

“It’s ‘imperative’ that you sleep,” John stated, though his voice was a little muffled by Sherlock’s shirt.

“It _really_ isn’t,” Sherlock scoffed in retort.

“It is for me,” he replied, moving his fingers over Sherlock’s scalp.

Sherlock huffed, “The work I do is important. For _you_. It must be done and I am the only one to do it.”

Still carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, John smiled, “It can wait.”

“No it can’t!” he debated, and shifted and tensed his legs after two minutes. “…I need to use the toilet.”

“No you don’t,” John replied.

“...You made me drink tea. I do. Would you rather I wet myself?”

“You’re not going to wet yourself.”

“I might.”

He huffed, “I’ll risk it.”

Sherlock went instantly silent after that, evidently in a sulk, and the room filled with the lulling sounds of them both breathing, and John’s fingers combing through Sherlock’s oily curls. It got cosily warm, as they shared body heat, and John didn’t have to listen to Sherlock’s heartbeat to know he was subconsciously relaxing with a slumping tilt of his body. John’s grip lightened as he listened, his arms more of an affirmation than a barrier now, though he remained slightly tense.

After almost an hour, Sherlock’s breathing began shifting as he fought the nearing slumber and he clenched his toes and adjusted his position, testing John’s reactions several times as he went to get up, only to be tugged back down. Making a noise of complaint and agitation in the back of his throat, Sherlock stretched and then bent his legs at random intervals, gripping the bed and building up to an awkward and frustrating fidgeting. All the while, John kept him in his arms, stroking at his hair, and breathing in the scents that clung to his shirt, toes occasionally brushing the tops of Sherlock’s feet as he listened, and waited.

Sherlock ducked and turned his head after another ten minutes, trying to escape the caresses, even flexing up the forearm of the arm he was leaning on to try and bat John away, “Stop touching me,” he groused. “I don’t like it.”

John stilled his fingers for a moment, but then continued with a smirk, “Yes you do.”

“I really don’t,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth, building up to a second go of struggling away from John, fighting to free himself to no avail.

“Stop it,” he ordered quietly, tightening his grip to hold him still, “Relax.”

“No! I don’t want to relax, I don’t want to rest, and I shall not fall asleep!” Sherlock growled. “Now, let me go! – I _hate_ this! I don’t want to be touched!”

“Shh,” John hushed him, leaning up to bush his nose against his curls at the back of his neck.

“No! John, seriously, let me go. I will not lie here when I have so much to do! You’re being irrational,” Sherlock told him persistently, trying to struggle for another several moments before going still again, breathing deeply and very, very faintly beginning to tremble.

John nuzzled his neck and hair with an instinctive soothing breath and hummed, “It’s okay, Sherlock. It’s okay.”

Sherlock swallowed and clenched his toes, “It’s _not_ okay. Let me go,” he said with a stutter of his heart at the affectionate sensation, clearly enjoying what John was doing.

John let a warm breath through his nose and continued to brush it against his skin, “I’m not leaving you, Sherlock.”

It took a while, but slowly Sherlock got back into the relaxed state he had been in before, his body slumping against the bed and legs going lax. He fought sleep again, however, trying to keep moving and focused and awake, but eventually, with the stimuli of John’s body warmth, stroking fingers, and nuzzling nose, he was dragged under. When his breathing changed, deepening with obvious slumber, Sherlock’s body slouched fully and he went loose in John’s arms with a small snore.

Waiting for several minutes more, listening carefully to Sherlock’s heartbeat and breathing, John relaxed himself, unhurriedly pulling away and towing a blanket over him. Sherlock groaned and mumbled, shifting a little so he lay on his back with a sleepy frown, but settled once again, much to John’s relief.

He took the chance to return to the living room, switching off the television – which he’d left running and had kept him alert enough to deal with Sherlock through the long hour of waiting – and gathered one of the flasks that had been left on the side before returning to the bedroom. Setting the flask on the bedside and within both reach and sight, John climbed back on the bed, and sunk under the blanket next to his friend.

It felt like a lifetime ago since John had shared the bed and the company of someone in such close quarters, and John was slightly upset that he never would again. How could he, when he was like this? Who would want someone like him now? They would forever be under fear of infection, would always be on edge around him and overly cautious of any small nicks they might acquire. John had known his life was never going to be simple, living with Sherlock, but he had never expected for it to be something like this.

John watched his friend, his colleague, his flatmate, as he slept and counted himself lucky. If what had happened to him had happened without Sherlock around, John could see himself going the exact same way as Jessica had. He would have attacked someone and then died, curled up somewhere, with his stomach stuffed and his body damaged from hunger. Although this thing was grinding at them both, at least they had one another. Sherlock was looking after John whilst John tried his best to do the same for him. It was difficult, working past his new cravings, but it was doable, it had to be, he would fight until it was.

After what felt like a quarter of an hour had rolled on by, Sherlock, having been relatively quiet and still beside John for all of that time, unexpectedly twitched. He twitched not once, not twice, but four times, each one more violent than the other. They were bodily twitches, the kind that are uncontrollable and gut wrenching, and they shook the bed as they happened, stirring John’s restful mind. Sherlock was also frowning deeply, his mouth downturned and contorting, his legs jolting, and his hands clasped at the bed and blanket intermittently, while he grimaced and turned his head aside. He then muttered, whimpered, and began to suddenly sob.

John reached out for him, running a hand through his hair as he gently rubbed over his fingers, “Shh, Sherlock, it’s alright. You’re okay. Everything’s okay,” he whispered.

Sherlock tossed and turned, chocking on a hitching inhale, and then he lurched upward with a shout, scrambling back into the headboard and looking around widely, his heart racing and his face wet with a vulnerable expression. His eyes jumped and flitted across the room and then he looked straight at John and froze, pressing his mouth together tightly with a wobble of his chin.

John held his hands up in a placating manner, rising to his knees as he watched. He shifted closer, carefully, slowly, putting a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, “It’s alright. I’m okay. We’re both okay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock panted through his nose, staring at John, and then slapped John’s hand aside, stumbled off the bed and locked himself in the bathroom with an almighty slam of the door. John heard him rush to the toilet and abruptly heave, retching fiercely, dropping to his knees. John sighed and scrubbed at his face with a groan. Not only had Sherlock suffered a nightmare, he was throwing up what hadn’t been digested from that morning, and all for barely a handful of minutes’ sleep.

Once he was done Sherlock panted into the bowl and silently wept with a wet and shaky few breaths, trying to keep as quiet as possible. Normally, John wouldn’t have been able to hear him, but now he could hear every muffled and barely stifled sound. Sherlock flushed the toilet, cleaned out his mouth, washed his face, and then went back to the kitchen as if nothing had happened.

This he knew was his fault. If he hadn’t forced Sherlock to sleep…But no. He needed the rest – still did in fact – and he wasn’t going to feel sorry for trying. Instead, he folded away the blanket, collected the flask and returned to the kitchen once more.

The moment he stepped through the threshold, Sherlock moved further away, turning his back on him and losing himself in his work. His eyes were rimmed red and still glistening with tears, and his face was a little blotchy. He ignored John with a stiff back and gripping hands, seeming almost ashamed of himself. John wasn’t sure if it was because of the nightmare or the way he was now snubbing him.

John sighed, and rubbed the back of his head, “I… I drown in blood.”

Sherlock flexed his fingers and gave John a sideways glance, “Every time?”

He gulped, “Twice. The first night, and last night. You woke me before I had the chance to dream yesterday.”

Looking away again, Sherlock inclined his head, “Right…”

“It always starts in the desert, but it’s cold, and then I follow you, but I end up in the alley again and you’re gone, and something drags me under,” John huffed, “I know it’s not you though, whatever it is.”

“Enough,” Sherlock said in a snappish tone, going back to work. “Go away.”

John paused, then moved to stand next to him, placing the flask down on the table, “You don’t have to bear it alone,” he mumbled, and then walked out and back to Sherlock’s bedroom, determined to finish making the bed.

It took an embarrassing amount of time to get the cover onto the duvet, but in the end he managed it, smoothing it out on top of the bed, giving the pillows an extra fluff before sitting down on the edge, book in hand. He didn’t quite manage to lose himself in it this time, but he’d made a further dent in it by the time his stomach started complaining again, almost three hours later, and he set it down before making his way back.

Sherlock seemed to be ready for him and was just putting a mug full of blood into the microwave, “Tomorrow you can try on your own. So you don’t have to keep relying on me. I know you hate it.”

“Wasn’t very… successful… earlier,” John said, watching after it as his stomach made the angriest gurgling noise.

Sherlock suddenly handed him a small vial of blood, “To ease it a bit,” he told him as he extended it out.

John looked down at it with a frown, even as he reached for it. He sucked in a surprised breath when he could feel its heat through the plastic, and closed his fist around it, “No.”

“Drink it,” Sherlock told him.

“For emergencies,” he returned, “I said… for emergencies.”

“Please, drink it,” Sherlock tried instead.

His frown deepened, fingers opening slightly to reveal the red. “Emergencies,” he repeated, even as his thumb played with the cap.

Sherlock sighed, “John, _please_ just drink it.”

Nodding, he popped the cap off and tipped the contents into his mouth without hesitation. A satisfied smile flitted across his lips as he savoured it, holding a fist to his mouth until he swallowed. It was probably the best thing he had ever tasted.

After the microwave beeped Sherlock took the mug to him, standing so close to him that both of their arms brushed, “Here,” he murmured.

John leaned closer as he took the mug, and closer still as he drank, his nose wrinkling slightly in disappointment, but it was still good. Sherlock’s hand drifted and then landed on John’s shoulder, fingertips rubbing at the fabric of John’s dressing gown as he grabbed for his notepad with the other and jotted down a few things briefly.

John finished the mug fairly quickly this time, but he didn’t feel the need for any more, so he just put it down and turned to Sherlock, holding onto his arm as he waited for his brain to reboot. “Don’t…” He blinked. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Sherlock replied lowly, not looking at him.

"You know," he replied lowly, "I won't let you do that. Emergencies only."

“It was only a small vial full,” Sherlock told him with a soft scoff. “It helped you, didn’t it?” John glared at him, but looked away after a few seconds, annoyed that it was true. Sherlock’s fingers shifted down his shoulder and away, “Why don’t you go watch some more television?”

He looked down at Sherlock's hand and nodded, moving around the table and settling in his chair. The remote was where he'd left it earlier, and he set it in his lap, staring at the blank screen for a minute before finally flicking through the channels.

The day wore on, the TV programmes ran, and Mrs Hudson bustled around in her own flat. It seemed like any other normal, and boring, day in 221B. Except, of course, for the smells of dead flesh, blood, chemicals, and mice that drifted and swirled out from the kitchen as Sherlock did tests, ran experiments, fiddled on his phone, and wrote in his notepad. He stopped every so often, possibly to have one of his mini ‘breaks’ but otherwise kept moving and diligent.

It was just approaching 7pm, some two hours after his last 'meal', that John realised it would probably be a good idea if he messaged Sarah about being unable to work for the foreseeable future. Not that he knew where his phone was... "I need to message Sarah," he exclaimed, standing from his seat.

“Hm,” was Sherlock’s preoccupied reply.

John ignored him and started looking around the tables, down the side of the chair, and almost started towards Sherlock's room when those options came up empty, but then he rolled his eyes. "Sherlock."

“Hm.”

"Where's my phone?"

“Hm?”

John walked over to him and folded his arms. "Phone. Where is it?"

Sherlock looked at him, “You don’t need it.”

"I need to tell Sarah I won't be at work for a while."

“No you don’t,” Sherlock said, turning away.

John frowned. "Yes, actually, I do."

“Really don’t,” Sherlock replied with a fleeting smile.

He rolled his eyes, "What did you do now?"

“I dealt with it,” Sherlock shrugged. “I had to. Otherwise there would be questions. She’d call or come over. And we don’t want that.” He looked at John again and sighed. “I said you were visiting your sister because she was struggling with her drinking. Again. Family emergencies are always the best excuses. That or deaths, but I thought you’d be a little ticked off if I used that.”

John stared at him, and then chuckled, "Only you, Sherlock..."

Sherlock smiled at him slowly, “You’re welcome.”

Looking back at the front room for a moment, he dismissed the idea of returning to the TV, and decided to make Sherlock some more tea. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked as he filled the kettle.

“Other than force more tea down my throat?” Sherlock huffed. “You are perfectly permitted to look through my notes if you like, I’m making them more for you than for me, but I’d rather you stayed away from anything else. I’m still working with blood. Yours. Jessica’s. And mine.”

"Yours?"

“Mine.”

John dropped a teabag in a mug, "What was wrong with those blood bags?"

“Nothing,” Sherlock told him. “I worked on them a little. But I found it’s easier just to use mine.”

"Of course you did."

“Sometimes all I had to do was prick my finger,” Sherlock said with a nonchalant lift of one shoulder, looking nonplussed. “Saved time.” John just sighed and scooped the sugar into the mug, leaning against the counter as he waited for the kettle to boil.

“…And I ran out,” Sherlock added. “I couldn’t leave to get some more and even if I did go, you’d more than likely lecture me about doing so.”

"I don't think there's a situation where I _wouldn’t_ lecture you," he agreed, pouring in the hot water, "You have to be more careful."

Sherlock scoffed, “I’m always careful.”

"Right," John said, and set the tea beside him. "Do you need any saliva samples?"

“Yes,” Sherlock told him and turned after grabbing a swab, holding it up to John’s mouth impatiently. **He gave him a look, but opened wide.** Sherlock’s lips twitched and he rubbed the swab against the inside of John’s mouth, “If you’re bored, which you plainly are, we could always play a board game?” he offered casually. “I doubt it would take much brainpower to play one of those with you whilst I work.”

John's brow rose in surprise, "You're offering to play a board game with me?"

“I have Guess Who,” Sherlock told him, lifting both eyebrows high.

"Guess Who?" he smirked, "Alright then. Let's have a couple of games."

“It’s on the shelf in my wardrobe,” he said and gestured for John to go get it as he moved to put the swab away, labelling it nimbly.

John nodded and left to get it, "Don't forget the tea!" he shouted back once he'd reached Sherlock's door, stepping over to the wardrobe when he heard a hum in reply. He had to push a few things aside, but low and behold, the red and yellow box of Guess Who was sat on the shelf, tucked into a corner behind what looked like a hot water bottle. He pulled it out with a smirk and brought it back into the kitchen. "You know, I didn't think you actually had it."

“Mrs Hudson got it me,” Sherlock told him with a slight roll of his eyes. “Thought it was highly amusing – She’s a sore loser though. Thinks I cheat. I don’t cheat.”

John just chuckled and pulled the lid off the box, setting up the boards and passing one to his flat mate, "Take a card then."

Sherlock took one and glanced at it briefly, tucking it into his pocket, “I have a chess board somewhere too,” he mentioned.

"Later maybe," he said, picking his own and putting it under his board, "I'll go fist, shall I?"

As expected (and warned) Guess Who was next to impossible to win against Sherlock - except that one time John had misheard a question and ended up winning on a fluke - and it got old fast. He knew that accepting a game of chess would be stupid, so he didn't even try, and Monopoly was too long for his liking. So instead, he got out a pack of cards and played solitaire. It was on his fourth successful round that the pangs reappeared. Sherlock was thankfully just coming out of what was another ‘break’ and he rubbed his face, noticed the time, and turned to John with a questioning look that cleared at the obvious answer written all over John’s body.

He filled a mug, heated it, and then passed it to him as quickly as physically possible, leaning on the table a little to watch him. John consumed it without a word; simply enjoying it and the calming effect it had on his stomach, and then passed the mug back with a pleading look.

“Need to buy bigger mugs,” Sherlock said as he poured him some more.

"Maybe," John agreed hazily as he watched the mug rotate in the microwave.

“Or a bigger microwave,” Sherlock murmured, regarding John closely.

He frowned, "New kettle?"

Sherlock smiled at him, “Maybe,” he shrugged. “Though I took it apart last month and…fixed it. So it’ll last us a bit longer.” He gave John the warmed blood again.

He took it with a hum of thanks, and sipped at it, "Thermos?"

Gesturing vaguely with one hand, Sherlock examined him as he drank and then turned away, “I asked for the blood to be sent here routinely and discreetly. Or as discreetly as packaged up blood can be,” he huffed.

"Back door?" he guessed as he finished his 'food'.

“Definitely not the front,” Sherlock said with a brief nod.

He nodded, then, looking up at Sherlock, tilted his head to the side. "Is it really that... fascinating, watching me... eat?"

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t be fascinated if it was the other way around?” Sherlock asked with a high-arching eyebrow.

"Maybe at first, but... it's been a few days."

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, moving his gaze to the eyepiece of his microscope, “Later I shall take the contents of another flask, warm it up, replace it, and then leave it by the bedside. So you may have it as soon as you need it.”

John nodded, and went to wash the mugs, "So... this will all be new territory. After tonight, I mean."

For a long moment, Sherlock didn’t respond, and John wondered if he had heard him, but then Sherlock swallowed, “Yes,” he said gently.

Putting the mugs down, he moved over behind him and gave his shoulders a comforting squeeze, "It'll be okay. I've been getting better all day, haven't I?"

Sherlock lowered his head and then turned and awkwardly embraced him a little too tightly, “The problem today might not be the problem tomorrow,” he said not sounding pleased at having to say such an obvious fact. “Just like your senses were once a problem only to be taken over with your craving for blood—Not that it matters. I don’t care. I’m…here anyway. – You don’t have to bear it alone.” Sherlock repeated the phase John had said to him with a quiet voice filled with sentiment and affection.

John smiled and squeezed him back, "I know." He rubbed his back and forced his grip to loosen, allowing Sherlock control on the embrace.

He stayed against John for a long moment, some would think uncomfortably too long, though John knew there was a reason for it and let it lengthen for as long as Sherlock needed, “Mycroft will get suspicious soon,” he finally whispered to him. “He has people watching the flat. I know where they are. I also know where the cameras are which he uses—There aren’t any in here, but there are outside.”

"Then I suppose we'll have to make an appearance soon then," John replied, then swallowed, "I... expect he knows about what happened yesterday."

“He knows nothing. Which is why he’ll be suspicious,” Sherlock told him.

He nodded, "Then we should... find a nice sugary cake for him to focus on."

Sherlock pulled back, “I hadn’t considered that—Yes! Cake might do it,” he said and looked around at the equipment littering the kitchen. “I’ll ask Mrs Hudson…it’ll have to be his favourite. And big. Very big. Like his head.”

John chuckled at his enthusiasm, "And we'll have to think up a reason. Wasn't there something in the paper about a peace treaty being signed the other day?"

Sherlock shrugged and then frowned, looking off to the side, “What is his favourite? – Cheesecake? Sponge? Chocolate?” He drummed his fingers against where he was still warmly holding John’s shoulders and muttered to himself. “Fruitcake?—I can’t very well ask. Or ask my mother. She’ll want to talk. And talk. And talk. And talk. And talk…and _talk_ …”

"What do you remember him eating the most?" John grinned, "but chocolate is always a safe bet."

“That is true,” Sherlock agreed with a matching grin, turning his attention back at John again.

John just smiled up at him, "See?"

“Chocolate it is then,” Sherlock said. “I’m sure it doesn’t really matter. The fat oaf would stuff any sort of sugary substance in that gob of his.”

John gave him a nod, "Maybe I…" He stalled, his smile fading a little. "You should definitely have some. You haven't eaten since yesterday morning."

Sherlock’s expression shifted and the atmosphere was suddenly a lot more sombre, “It might be best that you don’t go anywhere near Mycroft,” he said. “If he turns up. Which he may not. – I’ve been keeping an eye on him. On the people outside. I could possibly deal with it all without causing more suspicion. I’ve fooled Mycroft before. I just need to be quick.”

John sighed, his shoulders falling, “Yeah. That’s… probably for the best.”

Looking at John with a small frown, Sherlock flexed his fingers and then self-consciously rubbed John’s arms, “It’s not as if you want to see Mycroft anyway. He’s annoying. And fat. And snooty. And…fat,” he said, quirking one corner of his mouth.

“Hmm…” he said, lowering his head and folding his arms. “It’s just for now though. At least… only until I get used to… all this. I’m not going to hide forever.”

“I never expected you to,” Sherlock murmured and let his hands drop to his sides. “Nor do I expect you to get used to this – There is a reason I’m spending so much time in this kitchen, you know.”

“Alright,” he nodded, raising his head again to give Sherlock a firm look, “But if there isn’t one – _if_ – then you’re not going to beat yourself up about it, yeah?”

Sherlock looked away with a tight pursing of his mouth, “I should get back to work,” he intoned, turning around.

John grabbed a hold of his arm and turned him back around again, pulling at his chin so they were staring into each other’s’ eyes, “Sherlock. I won’t blame you, so you shouldn’t either. Do you understand?"

“Everything is riding on me! On what I do in here! – If I can’t fix it, if I can’t fix _you_ , then of course I’ll…” He trailed off and exhaled through his nose. “You were right. I can’t blame myself for what happened to you, but _this_ , right now, _this_ is all on me, this is my responsibility. And so if it fails, if _I fail_ , of course I’m going to blame myself! Because it’s proof I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, reliable enough! It’s proof that I’m… inadequate…”

“No!” John exclaimed, grasping at the taller man’s shoulders, “Don’t you say that! Don’t you _ever_ say that! You are better, smarter, more reliable and capable, than any man I know, any person! I know that if you can’t find a cure, then it’s because there isn’t one. I know you will not give up on me. I _believe_ in you, Sherlock Holmes. You have to believe in yourself.”

Sherlock blinked at him and his eyebrows bunched despondently, “Then what? If there isn’t a cure, then what do we do?” he asked, looking at John with a strange expression, peering over John’s face with a glazing over of his eyes, as if he was recalling or imagining something. “You’re not dangerous. I’m not scared of you. Yet I really can’t bear to think you won’t be the same again…” Sherlock clenched his jaw at his admittance, looking abashed, and then let his expression shutter. “I need to fix it.”

“I’m still me,” John said, lifting a hand to stroke Sherlock’s cheek, “I made you a promise, and I intend to keep it. No matter what.”

“…It was you,” Sherlock whispered after leaning and then turning into John’s hand to breathe against his palm. “The dream. The…nightmare. First it was Jessica. Then it was you. – I’d met her once, apparently. She knew me. Talked to me. Even helped me on occasion. I’d met her and forgotten about her in an instant.” He looked away. “Once I’d figured that out she was there when I closed my eyes. In my dreams. My head. Just her and her God damn beads. Staring at me. And then…then it was you. And instead of her pale, stiff, decaying corpse in the bath, it was yours. Cut and splayed open. Organs damaged. Dead. Black. And oozing—It’s changed now though. All I can think about is that gun. And so it’s only logical that I dream about it too. -- Instead of being dead and sliced open on a bed of ice, your head was broken. Parts of you splattered up your bedroom walls…dangling from the lampshade…soaking into the carpet…”

John swallowed, guilt rising and making his insides feel heavy and his blood run cold. But he pushed it aside. It wasn’t important now.  
He continued to rub his thumb over Sherlock’s cheek as he stepped into him, wrapping his other arm around him and resting his forehead against his, “It’s not going to happen. Not any more. I could never hurt you.”

Sherlock reached up and gripped the lapels of John’s dressing gown, “Don’t make me sleep then,” he replied quietly and sighed, closing his eyes.

He remained silent, and rested his brow against Sherlock's with a sigh, "I won't make you sleep, Sherlock."

Their noses softly collided as Sherlock shuffled closer, adjusting his grasp of John’s lapels to hold them stronger, and they breathed together, “Good. Thank you.”

John nodded and moved his hand to Sherlock’s neck. It went against everything he stood for, but knowing what awaited him... "I'm going to put the kettle on."

“Again?” Sherlock huffed, his pulse thrumming up against John’s hand steadily.

John smirked, pulling away slightly, "You'll need the caffeine. And I expect you to take a shower later." He wrinkled his nose in mock disgust.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but lifted one hand to his greasy hair, then to his unshaven face, scratching the stubble there, “Later,” he agreed after a moment, glancing aside to take in the kitchen-cum-laboratory.

John followed his gaze and stepped back, pulling completely away from Sherlock's warmth, and turning to the kettle, "I'll leave you to it then?"

His dressing gown flowed through Sherlock’s fingers in a flutter, “Yes,” he said. “Unless you want to play another board game?” He lifted his eyebrows and grinned quickly.

He scoffed, setting up two mugs, "There are only so many hits my ego can take in one day."

Sherlock laughed and shrugged, “Spoilsport,” he said under his breath, knowing John could hear him.

He chuckled and shook his head, setting up the tea. It was half way through pouring the water, however, that John realised they were out of the key ingredient, "Milk. We don't have any milk," he grumbled, looking down at his mug with a sigh.

“Didn’t stop you before. Forget the milk,” Sherlock told him before he waved a long fingered hand toward the door. “Or borrow Mrs Hudson’s.”

John looked towards the door warily, but after a moment's hesitation he set Sherlock's mug next to him and made for the stairs. "I'll be back in a minute."

Sherlock gestured to him distractedly, “Hm.”

Back to normal then. He descended the stairs quickly, pausing outside of 221A for a moment, listening to make sure she was home, and then knocked.

“Oh! Hello dear – Have you come for food or company?” she asked with a quirking grin, her hands reaching for his arm to lead him inside. “Is everything all right? I’ve heard a bit of…commotion between you and Sherlock, you see. Shouting and the like. Nothing too serious I hope? I don’t want you two falling out.”

John smiled at her kindly, grateful for the concern, "Everything's fine, Mrs Hudson. We're just both getting a bit antsy, being cooped up inside for so long."

“Well go out! Get some fresh air,” she told him with a flutter of her other hand. She paused for a moment and then peered at him. “Still not back at work then?”

"Not yet," he replied rubbing the back of his head, "Have to wait a few days before working again after a bug. Have to make sure it passes. Uh, you don't happen to have a drop of milk going spare do you?"

Mrs Hudson nodded and bustled into her kitchen, “Sherlock use it all up again? – What does he do with it all? Surely he doesn’t drink it?”

"I think it was something to do with exsanguinated internal organs," he answered on the fly, following her only as far as the hallway.

She walked over with a jug of milk, “Here you are, love,” she said kindly. “Is that all?”

John took it with a nod. "Yes, and I... thought I ought to apologise. For all the noise."

“Oh, there’s no need! – I was just worried. I heard shouting and…I thought I heard someone being sick? Was that you dear? Horrible thing, vomiting. It always comes out my nose and I smell it for hours. Really is quite revolting.”

John winced at the memory, but nodded, "Haven't quite shaken it yet. Some tea should do me some good though."

Mrs Hudson nodded, squeezing his arm, “Look after yourself, John. And don’t hesitate to call me if you need me.”

"Of course," he replied, raising the jug of milk, "and thank you. I'll buy you some more the next time I have the chance."

She waved his words away and smiled widely, “Go and have your tea!”

Chuckling, he left her flat and made for the stairs. "Goodnight, Mrs Hudson."

“Night dear,” She replied, shutting her door softly with a sigh and another smile.

Returning to the kitchen, John perfected his tea and opened the fridge. Only to slam it shut with a groan. He really should have learned his lesson by now. Of course _she_ would be in the fridge, where else would she be?

“You might not want to look in there,” Sherlock said in the silence that followed.

"Little late, Sherlock," John moaned, placing the milk on the side and taking a sip of his tea. It tasted awful, but it was better than whatever it was that was in the icebox.

Sherlock looked at him, “She had to go somewhere.”

"Mm-hm," he replied, taking another sip, making a face at the flavour.

“It was obvious it would be the fridge,” Sherlock went on, eyeing him up and then nodding to a flask. “Why not drop some blood in there?”

"Mm-hm," John agreed, moving over to the flask and placing his mug beside it. He took a moment to prepare himself, breathing in through his mouth and out through his nose a few times before picking up a teaspoon and unscrewing the cap. He couldn't quite smell it, but he could almost taste it, so he stopped breathing altogether. He poured a little of the blood onto his tea - about the same amount as milk - and recapped the flask. Then, and only then, did he let himself breathe again.

“Might be best to stay out of the fridge for the foreseeable future – Or until I tell you it’s safe,” Sherlock said as he watched him.

"Yeah." John picked up his spoon and stirred the contents of his mug thoroughly, and then finally tried it. He hummed in satisfaction, pleased that the blood had almost entirely merged with the hot beverage, and left it tasting almost completely like tea, save for a slight zing on the taste buds.

“We should really have a separate fridge for food,” Sherlock mumbled, more to himself than to John, and looked contemplating as he went back to work.

"Maybe a mini fridge would do," John considered, "You could put it in one of the cupboards."

Sherlock puffed out a gentle laugh and inclined his head, “Could do.”

John smiled at him, and decided it would be a good time to finish his card game. "Or you could always just... not put body parts in the fridge."

“Never going to happen.”

"I thought not," he smirked, and set his mug down, paying attention to his game once more.

In the end, John decided to go to bed after he'd finished his tea, making it an earlier night than usual, but exhaustion was preying on him. As promised, Sherlock heated the contents of a flask for him and set it on the bedside table in his room, where John agreed to sleep. Just before he drifted off, he heard Sherlock lock the bathroom door and turn on the shower to finally clean the grime from his body.

He woke several times in the night, usually at about 3 hour intervals, with stomach pains, and was thankful for the foresight of his flatmate in those moments and fell back to sleep with relative ease.


	6. Chapter 6

The next three days didn't bring much change in their situation; Sherlock continued to work, and John continued to struggle with the changes he was suddenly forced to endure. However, they both made progress. John wasn't sure exactly what Sherlock had managed to do, but the times between his 'meals' had been steadily increasing, and was now somewhere around the 6 hour mark, and he was all but lucid while he drunk it. He was even able to ignore it completely if it had come out of the flasks (though fresh was still a work in progress).

Overall, he felt none the worse for wear, which wasn't something he could say about Sherlock. The poor man looked like he'd been dragged through hell backwards, yet he was still continuing on the same as always. John was at his wit’s end watching him do that to himself, but there was nothing he could do. At least he wasn't suffering from the nightmares, something which John himself still continued to have every night, each more strange than the last.

It was after one such dream that he stumbled into the living room, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with a yawn, "Morning Sherlock."

Sherlock jerked with a silent intake of breath and shifted his stance, “Morning,” he murmured. He had a cold looking mug of tea beside him that was murky with a misting film sticking to the corners and his clothing was overly creased.

John wrinkled his nose at the tea and tossed the swill down the sink, turning on the kettle and fetching two fresh mugs, "You're going to drink this one," he told the detective, producing a flask from the cupboard.

“I drank it,” Sherlock said. “Just not all of it.” He blinked slowly for a moment, staring off into the distance, and then rubbed his face and pulled out his phone. It was still slightly gloomy in the kitchen and so the light from the phone screen bathed Sherlock’s face in a pale, blooming white. It outlined and highlighted his cheekbones, and the bags under his eyes.

John looked at him in sympathy, but quickly turned back to their drinks. His hands twitched as he unscrewed the cap - an irregular occurrence - but he ignored it, putting it down to the prolonged lack of blood, "There is such thing as a light switch, you know."

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed absently.

He sighed and simply finished with the drinks, standing across from Sherlock as he put it down in front of him and groggily ran a hand through his hair as he sat down. He pulled at his shirt a little to make it come unstuck from his skin, the sweat from his nightmare making it uncomfortable, and swallowed his first mouthful, subtly watching Sherlock from under his brow.

Putting his phone away a few minutes later, Sherlock looked up and then seemed to freeze, blinking at John in confusion. He tilted his head, blinked again, and suddenly moved over to him and reached out to touch John’s arm, groping and pressing at his bicep as he trailed his fingers up and around.

He frowned at him over his mug. "What are you doing?"

“Are you…” Sherlock mumbled, not finishing the sentence as he moved around behind John, touching his shoulders. He squeezed and pushed and kneaded at John’s muscles, touching down his back a little, and then abruptly pushed his palms down John’s torso to his stomach.

"Sherlock!" John protested, his fingers tightening on reflex. Shards of China rained down on the table, and blood splattered over them, John, and his fingers. Sherlock jerked back in surprise, staring at the broken mug, and then slowly shifted his gaze back to John. He looked speechless, fascinated, nervous, and a little cautious. With a slow intake of breath, he picked up one of John’s hands and checked for injuries silently. John let him, too shocked himself to do much more that stare at them as they twitched and shook.

“Up,” Sherlock ordered, hauling John to his feet and over to the sink. He pushed John into the edge of it and then quickly rummaged around, slamming cupboard doors and coming back with some tweezers. He leaned into John’s back, reached around him and ran the tap as he cleaned John’s hands of blood, using the tweezers to carefully pull the varying pieces of sharp, chips sticking out of John’s fingers and palm.

He hissed and flinched at the first few, but then he just watched with gritted teeth as each piece was removed, the skin closing seamlessly behind it. He couldn't help but wonder at how Sherlock was able to hold his hands still, they seemed to be shaking so much. He noticed, fuzzily, that Sherlock made sure to keep away from any droplet of John’s blood, instantly washing it away. Once John’s hands were clear, Sherlock put down the tweezers and sighed, staying against his back as he pressed his wet fingers up John’s forearm, testing and pressing at the tendons and muscles there.

John frowned in confusion at first, but then blinked in understanding, "Oh."

“Turn around,” Sherlock said, stepping back and drying his hands on his own trousers.

Taking a moment to allow his thoughts to gather, he complied, clutching his hands together to still them. "... Next step?"

“Take your top off,” Sherlock instructed, walking to flick on the kitchen light.

John glared at him in annoyance at the order, but pulled it over his head anyway, the warm blood sticking to his chest through the fabric, and tossed it in the sink. Sherlock went back to him, inspecting him closely from navel to collarbone, paying just as much attention to his arms. He touched him next, pushing both of his hands onto John’s uncovered skin, and mapped his torso, following the lines of his pectoral and abdomen muscles, before shifting to examine his biceps again. When he slipped down to John’s trembling hands, he gripped them both to still them and then rubbed his thumbs into the centre of John’s palms soothingly, while he looked him over again. With a hum and a flicker of several expressions over his tired face, he turned to grab his notepad.

“You seem to have gotten at least two years volume of muscle gain over night,” he uttered, tilting his head as he wrote it down, calculating it on paper for John. His lips were quaking tensely. “Possibly three.”

He breathed out and nodded, running stumbling fingers over his arms, then ended up grabbing hold of them again to stop. "This is worse than when I got shot," he mumbled.

“It’s the pent up energy, I’d imagine,” Sherlock said, motioning to the broken mug. “You’ve been given a boost. A big one.” He strolled into the living room and picked up the poker from the fireplace, holding it out to John as he returned. “Release some of the tension and flood of vigour by giving this a bit of a bend – Then straighten it back out again.”

"A bit of a bend?" John asked incredulously, looking at the thing with a raised brow.

Sherlock took one of John’s hands and thrust the poker into it, “Bend it,” he firmly told him.

Rolling his eyes at Sherlock's impatience, he did as he was told. He probably put a little too much effort into it though, considering he managed to bend it to a right angle in what must have been only a few milliseconds. "... Huh."

“Right,” Sherlock muttered at the spectacle, looking very shaken, much like he had when he’d first seen John’s skin heal before his eyes. He walked away for a second, staring off into the corner of the room, and then was touching his forehead with one hand, his eyes flitting back and forth rapidly as he muttered to himself. “Muscle hypertrophy—During puberty, hypertrophy occurs at an amplified frequency. Natural hypertrophy generally ends at full growth in late teens. – A rather sufficient source of amino acids is crucial to produce muscle hypertrophy…” He was, clearly, connecting to his mind palace and sifting through information, and he tugged at his hair in frustration.

John dropped the poker on the ground and reached for Sherlock's fingers, pausing slightly when he realised he didn't know his own strength yet, and that his hands were still shaking, but the taller man's mumbles had him try anyway, simply smoothing his palms over the backs of his hands. He remained silent as he did this, knowing that to disturb the thought process would hurt him in some way. He was simply there, trying to sooth the physical to aide the mental.

“Two factors contribute to hypertrophy: sarcoplasmic hypertrophy, which increases muscle glycogen storage; and myofibrillar hypertrophy, which increases myofibril size,” Sherlock went on to ramble; his head and hands twitching as he pushed and dragged invisible data around. “D-during sarcoplasmic hypertrophy, the capacity of sarcoplasmic fluid in the muscle cell intensifies with no additional surge in muscular strength, whereas…whereas during myofibrillar hypertrophy, actin and myosin contractile proteins escalate in quantity, adding to muscular strength as well as a small increase in the size of the muscle. – Myofibrillar hypertrophy… that’s…that’s—The two forms of hypertrophy seldom occur entirely independently of one another…” Sherlock shook his head and then grit his teeth. “I…don’t…it doesn’t…”

John moved his hands down Sherlock’s arms and rubbed at them, "I know. I know."

Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose and after a moment of spasmodically gripping his hair, he stopped and sagged, his shoulders rounding as he dropped his head forward. He closed his eyes and frowned deeply with a downturned curve of his mouth. Sherlock looked lost and confused, stressed with the impossible probability of what had happened to John and what may happen. He seemed almost frail. A shadow of his former self. Bewildered and petrified, close to a mental breakdown.

Pulling him close, John risked curling his arms around him, holding Sherlock’s head against his shoulder, "I'm still here. I will always be here."

“Impossible man,” Sherlock said with a muffled and shaking voice, his hands staying by his sides for an unsure moment until he lifted them to reach around and grip hold of John’s toned back.

He hummed and rubbed his friend's shoulder blades in slow circles. "What a pair we make, eh? Sherlock Holmes and the Impossible Man." He chuckled. "Not a bad title that."

Sherlock huffed and basked in John’s affections, relaxing little by little, “Sounds like one of your silly blog titles…”

"I don't think I'll be writing about this adventure," he replied, moving his fingers into Sherlock's curls.

“No,” Sherlock whispered and took an unsteady breath, turning his face into the crook of John’s neck for a brief second. A second in which he tightened his grip on John’s body. He then leaned back, rubbing his face with a grimace of indignity. He was still standing extremely close, one hand lingering on John’s waist, and he kept his expression and eyes hidden with his other. “I should take more samples.”

"Yeah," John agreed with a nod, letting his hands fall to Sherlock's elbows, "I'd better have a shower too. Don't want to smell of blood all day."

Sherlock lifted the hand on John’s waist to the side of John’s face, patting gracelessly and then cupped his throat, “Mm.”

John coughed, blushing at the contact, and looked away, stepping back slightly as he scratched the back of his head. "Uh, where did you put the needles?"

“Have a shower first,” Sherlock told him, finally showing his face and glancing at the spilt blood and broken mug. “Mrs Hudson won’t be pleased – That’s one of hers.” His mouth quirked mischievously.

He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face, ignoring its trembles. "Great... I'll buy her a new one." He gave Sherlock an exasperated look. "And we still need a new bread knife."

“When was the last time we cut bread? – All loafs that you buy come segmented. We have no need of a bread knife,” Sherlock told him huffily as he gestured toward where John guessed he’d stored the broken and now overly sharp blade.

"It's for sandwiches," he explained, "or those rare times we get a pizza from the shops." He picked up the bent poker and bent it - slowly - back into place before depositing it on the table. "I'm going to wash then, and see if any of my clothes actually fit any more."

Sherlock looked instantly at the poker as he nodded, “Fine.”

John hesitated for a moment, and then rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "I'll be back in a bit."

With a quick, hopefully light, squeeze, he left and made his way to his room, where he sorted through his clothes for his most baggy shirt and drawstring trousers, along with what he'd usually wear, and made for the bathroom. He made sure he was extra careful when he touched everything, not entirely sure what would happen if he just did things normally, but in the end, he was washed and freshly shaven in half an hour, and back in the kitchen shortly after.

Sherlock had, surprisingly, cleaned up the blood and the china shards, and the second John stepped through the doorway, the microwave pinged with another full mug for John to take. The man himself was drinking a glass of water and fiddling with a packaged syringe, waiting for John’s return patiently with a distant, slightly pondering expression on his face.

John blinked in disbelief at the scene, but accepted the mug when it was offered, "Have I stepped into some parallel universe or something?" he asked, tugging at the now well fitting shirt (who knew Harry's lack of awareness in his sizes would come in useful).

“I do occasionally clean, you know,” Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes.

"Right..." he replied, taking a sip before putting the mug down and offering his arm.

“I do,” Sherlock muttered as he set about taking John’s blood in what had soon become a natural, familiar and expected event. “And it was in my way. I’m working in here.”

"I'd better move my shirt out of the way then," John replied, nodding towards the sink as he wiped up the drop of blood that escaped.

“Yes,” Sherlock told him, barely giving John a chance to agree to another swab of his saliva.

He waited until the swab had been collected before retrieving his top, wrinkling his nose at how wet it was. It seemed it was time for another lot of laundry soon then. He quickly wrung it out as much as he could, and then dumped it in the basket with his other bloodied shirt - which was no doubt going to have a stain in it now. Sherlock, as what was standard now, withdrew to his work, blocking out all other stimuli and even ignoring John’s presence. He paused every so often to sip at his water though, something that John was immensely happy about, and even seemed to pull a lump of sugar from somewhere to chew and suck on.

John ended up picking up the poker again, twisting and bending it into all sorts of shaped until his hands stopped shaking. It took until the afternoon, unfortunately, and he couldn't help but hope that this wouldn't have to be a daily routine; just this morning he was hoping to go back to work, and here was yet another delay.

At one point Sherlock had stopped working and had apparently watched John silently, almost secretly, for about an hour, as when John looked over at him, he was waiting for John, eyes locked and body unmoving. He waited until John put the poker down and then walked over with a measuring tape, “Just making sure,” he informed John as he began measuring the muscles of his arms and legs, making note of them. John wasn’t sure when he’d collected them, but Sherlock had the statistics of his body and muscle mass since before the accident, and he was comparing the then to now. To be honest, John wasn't all too surprised by that, Sherlock probably had a chart all about it somewhere in his mind palace. It seemed like one of those things he'd do. Instead of watching him work though, John picked up the cards from the previous day, and played clock solitaire while watching television.

When he was done, Sherlock carded his fingers through John’s hair, checked his ears, his nose, his eyes, and the skin of his face, and then wandered away. It was almost like he'd been run through a check up or something; he recalled doing much the same techniques with his own patients.

Ten minutes later, he followed Sherlock into the kitchen, and set out new mugs, tipping Sherlock's cold tea down the drain, "Third time's the charm," he muttered to himself as he set the kettle on boil.

“I had water,” Sherlock told him and pointed at the half finished glass. “See.”

"Yes, and now you'll have tea," John replied, setting up his own drink in the microwave.

“I obviously don’t want to tea. Stop trying to force tea down my throat when I clearly don’t want tea,” Sherlock complained.

John's lip twitched - from annoyance or amusement, he wasn't sure - and he folded his arms, "Just... let me do this, okay?"

“If you want to feel useful, do something useful,” Sherlock said, his tone soft even as his words stirred up some irritation. He glanced at John and exhaled in defeat. “Make me a coffee.”

"We don't have coffee," John replied.

Sherlock looked only marginally guilty as he reached into a cupboard, pushing his hand to the back, “Yes we do.”

John just rolled his eyes as Sherlock pulled a near empty packet of Nescafe instant coffee out, "That's Greg's coffee."

Looking a little confused, Sherlock tilted his head, “Greg?” he repeated with a wrinkled nose.

"Lestrade's," John clarified, taking the packet from him with a huff, "You work with him more than anyone else, you'd have thought that you'd know the man's name."

“Hm,” Sherlock said as he shrugged flippantly. “Perhaps I did once.”

“How can you delete someone’s name – a _friend’s_ name?!” he questioned, tipping a teaspoon of coffee into the remaining mug.

Sherlock scoffed, “It was irrelevant! – I prefer calling him by his surname. It’s interesting, proficient, and it was what I knew him by first. I don’t need to know it. It not as if he means any less to me just because I’ve deleted his first name—Don’t tell him I said that. _Ever_.”

John blinked at the confession of affection from over his shoulder, stunned. He’d rarely, if ever, heard Sherlock admit to having feelings, and to hear him say them out loud rather than in subtext was almost unbelievable. And not only that, but he found Lestrade ‘interesting’! “Uh, no. Of course not,” he said, turning back to the kettle with a blink when it boiled.

“There’s a reason I go to him, that I work with him,” Sherlock added and seemed awkward about what he’d said as he shifted his stance, moving to sit down instead. “I blame you for this.”

He smirked finishing the coffee, “I’m a good influence. Sugar?”

“So everyone keeps telling me,” Sherlock mumbled. “Yes. Of course sugar.” He glowered petulantly and John smiled as he scooped in the same amount as usual, gave it a stir, and collected his own mug before setting Sherlock’s down by his elbow.

“Thank you,” Sherlock sighed, taking a sip almost instantly.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, lingering for a moment to give Sherlock another comforting nudge and then returning to the living room.

The day continued to pass in relative comfort, John occasionally switching channels or turning off the TV entirely so he could read or focus on his cards. Sherlock worked tirelessly, as always, all through the afternoon, only pausing to examine John further. It was about when dinnertime used to be that John’s legs started to twitch, and he ended up pacing a fair amount to keep them from bouncing off his chair.

“I need to go out,” he proclaimed after this seventh lap of the living room, squeezing his hands into fists and then relaxing them as the restlessness rose.

“You can’t,” Sherlock replied, gazing over at him.

“I _need_ to,” John repeated, turning to make his eighth circuit, “I have to move. This isn’t enough. I need to go faster.”

“You. Can’t,” Sherlock sighed. “You know you can’t – Run on the spot. Bring your knees up. Do a workout. You can’t leave.”

He didn’t know how, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough and shook his head, still pacing, “I have to get out. To run.”

Sherlock straightened and watched, checked his phone, then John’s, and appeared at John’s side a moment later looking defeated, grabbing his arm, “ _Stop_. Go put on your shoes. Quickly.” John was up the stairs in seconds, shoving his socks and shoes on and tying his laces as quickly as he could before all but jumping down the stairs to meet Sherlock on the landing.

“Follow me. Closely. Do _not_ go ahead of me,” Sherlock told him sternly as he pulled on his coat and rushed down the stairs. He paused, for just a moment, and then led them out the back, waiting for John to become accustomed to the bombardment of scents outside and then marched him through a maze of back alleys, jumping and climbing barriers with a glance over his shoulder.

John kept pace with his flatmate, but never a step before, as instructed, all but twitching now from the building energy inside him, though the obstacle course certainly helped keep it to a minimum, “Where are we going?”

Sherlock didn’t answer and instead kept leading John up and down and through close knit buildings, until they finally got to their destination, “Yes,” Sherlock said as he walked them to the vast stretch of Regent’s Park, “I did take us round in circles. Thought it best. And more fun – Plus, had to keep an eye on CCTV.” He motioned for John to go ahead but gave him a firm look. “You see anyone you know, you go the other way. _Especially_ if it’s Sarah. She still thinks you’re at your sister’s, don’t forget.”

John nodded at him, and immediately started off in a sprint. Or, it would have been a sprint, considering the speed he was going, but it felt like he was taking a light run. He slowed down after about thirty seconds, realising it would probably look strange for someone to be sprinting around the park, and kept to what he approximated as jogging speed. Occasionally, he passed by other joggers, usually listening to some music on their ipods and mp3 players, but the park was mostly populated by people who were out for an evening stroll, were eating, or were blatantly tourists.

He did perhaps four laps of the entire park in the end, luckily not running into anyone he knew save for a regular patient of his, who he managed to avoid by cutting through to the Inner Circle, and jogged back to where Sherlock was waiting for him, huffing and out of breath, but thoroughly satisfied, bending over to lean on his knees.

“Better?” Sherlock asked him with a small smile; observing him intently and then motioning for John to follow him back the way they’d come, checking his phone as he turned.

“Much,” he gasped, pulling as his shirt a little so he could cool himself down. “God, I haven’t run like that in… ever!”

Sherlock glanced at him and then reached for his arm, checking his pulse, “Mm.” John watched him, amused, and rubbed a hand through his hair as he got his breathing back under control.

Looking into John’s face, Sherlock then pulled a small opaque water bottle from his pocket, its contents a dark crimson, “Here,” he said, giving it to him after releasing his wrist.

He took it gratefully, pouring almost half the contents down his throat in one go, before slowing down and taking more careful sips, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

John screwed the top back on the bottle after a few more mouthfuls and dropped his arms to his side, “You checked my phone earlier.”

Sherlock arched his eyebrow, “Your point?”

“I was wondering why,” he replied with a shrug, waiting for Sherlock to jump over a fence before following with a jump.

“You’ve received a total of three messages today,” Sherlock told him. “I was answering two of them.”

Of course he was. “Who? What did they want? And what did you say?”

“Sarah, your sister, and Mike,” Sherlock said. “Sarah wanted to know when you’d be back to work and how your sister was holding up. Ironically your sister then messaged almost three minutes after that, asking after your health and why you were ignoring her emails. And Mike asked if you’d like to go out for a drink.”

“And which ones did you answer?” John asked, thinking that it had been far too long since he last saw Mike. He really ought to have thanked him about the flat properly.

Sherlock snorted, “Your sister was both drunk and begging for attention. So I ignored her.”

John hummed, already lamenting the loss of a night out with friends that weren’t Sherlock, “Why do you have my phone again?”

Sherlock stopped abruptly, so fast that John almost bumped into him, and turned to scowl at John intensely, “What do you think this is? What do you think I’m _doing_? – Do you honestly think you can go back to how things were?” he said in sharp provocation. “Does this not affect you at all now?—You are still _changing_! This thing hasn’t stopped. This virus is still there. Changing you. Playing with you. There is still more to come. More crazy, impossible, and boundless possibilities! More things I can’t understand or explain! – You _can’t_ go out. You _can’t_ see anyone! You need to— _I_ need to fix you.” He waved a hand. “You can’t have your phone because you’ll more than likely do something stupid. Give something away. Create problems. – It’s why I changed the password to your email too.”

John glared at him, understanding, but still hurt by the accusations, at his lack of trust, “So you’re just cutting me off from everyone else in my life that means something to me, is that it? I hadn’t left the house in days until you seemed to deem it necessary, and that was only when I could do something serious if we didn’t.” He gritted his teeth. “I know things are still changing, but until this morning, we didn’t know that anything was going to happen. Are we… supposed to live in fear that something else will happen? Hide away?” He shook his head. “I can’t do that, Sherlock. I can’t live my life trapped in a gilded cage.”

“You either do that or something happens to you in public and then you’re _taken_ from me!” Sherlock growled. He blinked and then clenched his jaw, turning away to pace shortly for a moment. “You’re wrong anyway. I knew there was more coming. I didn’t know what, granted, but I knew there was more. I knew it wasn’t over. And until it is, then…how can you go out? How? What if it’s something big? – I will _not_ let them take you!” He flexed his fingers and gestured around with his arms. “You think I want this? You think I want to _do_ this? You think I want to keep you under lock and key? I don’t. Why would I? How could I possibly want that for you?—This is why I have to fix you. So it can be like it was.”

John stared at him for a moment, his mind reeling and jumping as he suddenly realised that it was very possible, even exceedingly likely, for Sherlock’s experiments to have brought up results on the stability of his condition. He knew that what Sherlock had been doing was to keep him safe, and he wanted to believe that everything would go back to normal again, but normal had become skewed and twisted in these past days. “And if it can’t be?” he asked quietly, taking Sherlock’s arms in his hands, “If this is what I am now, or whatever it is that I end up becoming is something we can’t change, will you help me find that new… well, I don’t think we could class anything about us as ‘normal’, but…?”

Sherlock swallowed and pursed his mouth, clenching his jaw again, “Yes,” he answered. “If it can’t be treated. If, by the end of this, you’re not excessively, physically, altered, then of course we have to plan around it and…deal with the fact that it’s how you are. – You will still be you and you still can be you, only you have more things to consider. Not getting your blood on anyone or anything, for instance.”

John frowned at that, “Why is that exactly? I noticed you washed up rather quickly after I cut myself earlier, but I just assumed it was because it was for cleanliness reasons.”

“It’s in the blood, John. This thing is in your blood. It was in Jessica’s and it’s in yours,” Sherlock told him with a soft but deep exhale. “Some of Jessica’s blood must have mixed with yours when she bit you. There is no other explanation. Your saliva, and hers, didn’t have any trace of it. Only compounds of anticoagulant, which aren’t always present.”

He nodded at the explanation and gave Sherlock’s arms a light squeeze before stepping back to pick up the bottle he’d dropped, “I’ll be careful.”

“You need to be more than careful,” Sherlock said, watching him sombrely. “If anyone finds out. If _Mycroft_ finds out. You’ll vanish. You’re not dangerous but you are a _danger_. You’d be taken and never heard from again…”

John swallowed and nodded, thinking of all the horror stories about ‘government testing’ there were. “Let’s go home. We’ll… figure things out when we come to them.”

Sherlock turned away and continued on without another word, his coat flying out behind him. He took another route back, avoiding a group of youths smoking and drinking in one alley, and opened the back door after looking out for Mrs Hudson. They were back in their flat again moments later, and John collapsed back in his chair with a huff. He felt sweat dripping down his neck, but ignored it for now, wanting to rest first. Sherlock left him to it silently, going back to work with his coat left on for a while, expression hidden by the flicked up collar.

After a minute of just relaxing and breathing, John turned to him, putting his bottle on the table beside him, “Do you think my sweat would be useful?” And wasn’t that an odd phrase…

“Everything is useful,” Sherlock replied and then looked at him, strolling over to swab his forehead.

John frowned at him, “I’m not pissing in a pot.”

“No need,” Sherlock muttered with an odd quirk to his mouth as he moved away.

“You… what? _Sherlock_!”

Sherlock chuckled deeply and peeked over his collar with an impish glint in his eyes. He went back to work, shrugging out of his coat a few seconds later, and sat down to look at a slide under the microscope.

“Unbelievable,” John muttered, shaking his head. Running his hand through his hair, he decided it would be best to take another shower, or at least wash his face and hair. Good thing he had another few shirts spare. “You are incorrigible,” he said as he rose.

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied cheekily while John rolled his eyes and stepped out to wash himself.

The rest of the evening passed in comfort and ease, John going to bed fairly late, as had become the norm for the past few days. The next day was much the same as this last one, though it was around lunchtime that he felt he had to get out again. He ended up doing far too many press-ups and sit-ups to count before asking Sherlock if he could go to the park again. He felt like he was a little kid, having to ask and ‘hold his hand’, but he knew, if he wanted to be safe, that he had to.

Four laps later, and a bit of a detour around two patients and someone he thought looked like Clara, he was back at the house again. He thought – hoped – that this last step was _the_ last, but then the next morning came…

“Oh… oh God my _teeth_!” he exclaimed as he stepped into the kitchen.

Sherlock turned to him instantly with a frown, stepping close, “Let me see,” he ordered agitatedly.

“I haven’t brushed yet,” John warned, rubbing at his gums slightly. He held his breath and opened his mouth for his friend.

Quickly putting on latex gloves, Sherlock pulled back John’s lips to expose more of his mouth and peered in with a concentrating frown. He pressed in instantly with his thumbs to touch and then push at John’s canines, smoothing up the gum with a stunned blinking of his eyes.

John pulled away with a sharp gasp, covering his mouth with a hand, “ _Fuck_! Ow!”

Sherlock backed him into the kitchen corner and reached for his mouth again, “Wait,” he said sharply, swatting at John’s hand. “ _Move_!”

Inhaling a cooling breath, John lowered his hand again, “Be careful.”

Sherlock cupped the back of John’s head and reached in to touch his gums again, pressing and then nudging the two canine teeth, ignoring John’s winces of pain, “They’re loose,” he whispered in a murmur, peering closer and feeling behind the teeth too, stroking up the gum there and nudging. Sherlock increased his grasp on John’s head when John jerked and then pressed their bodies together to keep him still. He checked the other teeth, running his fingers along them, prodding and wiggling them to no effect.

“Ge’ ogh!” John slurred, giving Sherlock a light push – being careful to hold back – and pulling his head backward.

“A new pair of canines,” Sherlock was mumbling, looking off to the side and then releasing John. He huffed out a laugh and then another, sounding slightly wild and unstable, and tapered off with a sudden cringe of dread.

John frowned, rubbing over his gums, “Sherloc’?”

Sherlock pulled off his gloves, throwing them aside and then rubbed his face, raking his fingers through his hair roughly before he seemed to try and compose himself, “You’ve grown a third pair of canines,” he uttered.

“Third pair of…” John blinked, “I, uh…” He moved into the living room to look in the mirror. “Oh… shit…” There were lumps in his gums, just above where his canines were, sure signs of new teeth.

“Essentially, you’re teething,” Sherlock told him, having had walked up behind him. He pressed the back of his hand to John’s forehead. “Elevated temperature. Swollen gums. Irritability – Were you restless at all, last night?”

He shifted slightly, remembering having woken up several times and finding it difficult to get back to sleep, “Teething?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say?” Sherlock scowled, still looking on the verge of another frantic reaction. “Yes. Teething. You’re basically teething.”

“Let me just…” he poked at his gums tentatively, which made the tooth below wobble slightly. “Loose teeth.” He wobbled one a bit. “Very loose.”

“I should take another blood sample,” Sherlock muttered, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes as he walked away.

“Right,” John agreed numbly, following him back into the kitchen. As Sherlock prepped the needle, he turned on the kettle, and set up the mugs, pulling out the coffee instead of the usual tea.

Sherlock was shaking and he clenched and flexed his fingers, shaking out his arms, before he collected himself, “They could fall out today. You should take care not to swallow them,” he said, though his eyes glazed as he waited for John for a few moments. “It takes approximately 4-5 months for the initial calcification. 6-7 years for the crown to be completed. And 13-15 years for the root. – Even if this didn’t happen over night…it is still quite the feat.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

John nodded again, turning away from the mugs and walking over to Sherlock. Instead of holding his arm out though, he stepped close and pulled him in for a hug. It felt right. Felt needed. Unlike before, where it had taken him a moment or two to respond, Sherlock clung to him immediately, pushing his face to John’s shoulder and taking a deep, unsteady breath in.

“M’sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s okay,” he whispered back in reply, rubbing at Sherlock’s neck and burying his nose in his hair. “I’m okay. It will all be okay.”

Sherlock made a strangled noise in the back of his throat but enveloped John in his arms tighter, breathing against his collar, “They won’t be normal,” he said, the words muffled against the fabric of John’s t-shirt. He huffed out another unhinged sort of laugh and then rocked into John with a growl of frustration, trying to gather John up closer. “I _hate_ this! I hate it. I can’t understand it. I don’t know what’s happening. I can’t explain the acceleration. How this virus has done what it’s done in such a short amount of time without sending you in a coma or worse! – It’s _impossible_. Truly. How was this created? _Where_ did it come from?—How can you comfort me when this is happening to you?” He was almost hysterical and his rambles were nearly unintelligible. In fact, if John didn’t have the good hearing that he now did, he wouldn’t have understood any word of what Sherlock had said. Sherlock obviously hated reacting the way he was too, as he clutched and pushed into John to make himself stop, clinging to him like having John pushed intensely close would stop the cascade of panic and hysteria.

John just tightened his arms around Sherlock as he came closer still, and began instinctively stepping from side to side, trying to sooth him, “I comfort you because if I think about it, I know I’m going to snap.” He rubbed circles into Sherlock’s neck with his thumb. “You’re holding me together, Sherlock. It’s only right that I try to do the same for you.”

It took around two minutes for Sherlock to be completely calm again, clearly mollified by John’s presence and especially by his touch, as it was the first thing that steadied his heartbeat while he tried to control or stop his racing thoughts, fighting not to withdraw to his mind like he had done before. It would have come to nothing, after all, nothing but merely more hysterics and a bombardment of hopeless data that would do nothing to help the situation.

Sherlock lifted his head after another minute to press their temples together with a sigh, seemingly happy as John continued to sway them both from side to side. He trailed his fingers up the nape of John’s neck to thumb affectionately at his ear and then stroked the area of his throat where it had all started, and all John could do was shiver at the cascade of tingles. There was nothing but smooth, unmarred skin in place of the mangled bite, of course, but Sherlock traced the markings of Jessica’s teeth all the same, clearly having memorised it.

John continued to stroke circles into his neck as he allowed Sherlock to touch at where the mark had been, “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured, sounding extremely lethargic.

“Good,” he smiled softly, “Do you want the samples, or do you want to stay here for a bit longer?”

“Stay,” Sherlock replied tone layered in contentment, only to then inhale sharply and lean back, looking a little embarrassed. “Though that’s…wasting time. So. No. Samples should be taken. I need to have them.”

John just nodded, his small smile still in place as he loosened his hold, “Whatever you need. I’m right here. You just have to ask.”

Sherlock’s blushed and pulled away, clearing his throat, “Fine. Good. Great – Arm please,” he said, moving for the syringe.

John held it out for him, tonguing at his teeth a little as he watched Sherlock take a sample, much as he used to do as a kid when he was gaining his adult teeth. Already they felt looser than before, but not quite ready to come out yet. John didn’t know how to feel about what was happening. What would the new teeth look like? Would it dramatically change his face? What if more of his teeth started to fall out? What if, in the end, he was some hideous deformed creature? John pushed the thought, and the mental image of the creature from The Fly, from his head quickly.

Moving away with the fresh sample, Sherlock busied himself, “I’ll have that coffee now.”

John smirked at the sudden return to character, and re-boiled the kettle, moving to fetch a flask from the cupboard, but then deciding against it. He wasn’t really that hungry yet, he could wait. Once Sherlock’s coffee was done, he set it next to him, and started poking at his teeth again subconsciously.

Sherlock glanced at him sidelong and huffed with a brief smile, “You’ll start dribbling soon. That’s what babies do when teething. Dribble. All over.”

“Babies don’t know how to swallow properly,” John replied, automatically sucking the saliva in his mouth and swallowing.

Snorting in amusement, Sherlock reached for the coffee and took a quick sip, “Should get you a teething ring,” he muttered under his breath playfully.

“If you do that, I’m throwing Yorik out the window,” he retorted, sitting down opposite him.

“It’s Billy—Stop calling it Yorik. It isn’t clever nor funny,” Sherlock told him with an arched eyebrow. “And you will do no such thing.”

John scowled at him, “Uncultured swine.”

Sherlock pulled a face at him in rebuttal and fought to stifle a grin that it produced, “Says the man who can’t distinguish between Mozart and Bach – Nor the difference between a good or bad selection of wine.”

“But Hamlet, Sherlock!” John moaned, “ _Hamlet_!”

“Boring!” Sherlock announced.

He scoffed, and returned to wobbling his teeth, “Would haf though’ you’d li’e Sha’espea’e…”

“Hm.” Sherlock watched him in half amusement and then tilted his head, “Must you do that? – Leave your teeth alone, John.”

He pulled his finger from his mouth and raise an eyebrow at him, “What, you never wobbled your teeth as a child?”

“You’re not a child,” Sherlock told him and then pursed his mouth as he went on to admit, “…I twisted mine more than wobbled them.”

John paused, then nodded, “Maybe I’ll do that when they’re loose enough.”

“I’d rather you didn’t – We aren’t sure how long it would take for the other set to emerge. And it might be interesting to know,” Sherlock said, leaning on the table. “Let me see again.” John huffed and opened his mouth, taking the chance to breathe on Sherlock’s face as Sherlock stretched closer and peered in, impatiently nudging John’s top lip out of the way, “Still painful?” he asked, already pressing and pushing.

John hissed immediately and pulled back before he could stop himself, “Sharp.”

“Hm – Leave them alone for an hour and then show me them again,” Sherlock instructed him.

“What if they fall out before then?” he asked, though he didn’t really know why.

“Still show them to me,” Sherlock shrugged, looking apprehensive and exceedingly overwhelmed once more. He glanced away, ruffled a hand through his hair, and busied himself with work again.

John watched him for a few moments, but then gave Sherlock’s shoulder a reassuring pat and resituated himself back in the living room again, where he started playing cards to keep his hands busy. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed exactly, having not being paying attention to the clock, but somewhere around his twelfth game of solitaire, he became aware of something small and solid in his mouth, and a gap in his teeth. Holding up his hand, he spat out what had once been one of his canines, and sighed. This was going to be fun.

Rising from his seat, he made his way back into the kitchen, and sat down opposite Sherlock again, holding the tooth up, “One of them fell out.”

Sherlock took it from him, looking the tooth over and even examining it under the microscope, he then gestured for John to open his mouth while he went and retrieved his small magnifying glass. Leaning close to John, Sherlock cupped the back of his head and nudged his chin up without any verbal ask of permission to do so. He was too intent on his path and search of John.

“Asking, Sherlock,” John muttered with a roll of his eyes, but complied all the same, opening his mouth.

The first thing Sherlock did was quickly press on the other tooth, checking the gum and pulling his hand back with a sigh when John jerked in discomfort, “Done?” he asked snappily, exceedingly intolerant of everything it seemed. He bent back down and opened John’s mouth wider with a hand on his jaw, using the small magnifying glass to inspect the gap where his tooth had once been nestled. He then touched the gum with his fingertip, poking up at the hole, before he abruptly twitched in what looked like an automatic reaction to pain, and suddenly there was an explosion of taste in John’s mouth. Sherlock pulled his hand away with a curse, muttering about forgetting to wear gloves, the tip of his finger beading with blood before John’s eyes.

He stared at it for a few moments, mesmerised as always as he let the flavour roll around on his tongue, but then he shook himself out of his stupor and pulled the bleeding appendage close, “You idiot,” he sighed, pulling Sherlock over to the sink and running the wound under the tap, “You have to be more careful.”

“How was I to know that it would be that sharp?” Sherlock exclaimed, his eyes flitting as he thought over what had happened and what he’d no doubt seen. He looked down at his finger, at the blood, and then glared, flushing in annoyance.

“Just hold it under there for a minute while I fetch the plasters and cream,” John replied, making a quick dash to the bathroom and returning with his quarry, “Let me see it.”

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock said dismissively, lifting it with a dribble of blood. “There’s no need to make a fuss. I cut my finger open with a sharpened bread knife several days ago, this is nothing.”

“Which still makes you an idiot. Let me see it,” John repeated, holding his hand out.

Sherlock glared but extended his index finger toward him with a sigh, “Here,” he groused.

“Thank you.” He studied the finger, using a damp cloth to wipe away the blood that was still flowing from it – and ignoring the thoughts in his mind that were telling him that he was wasting it – and examined the wound properly. It really wasn’t much more than a puncture, but John still took great care in cleaning and dressing it. Once he was done, he dropped the cloth in the sink, and put the boxes of plasters and cream on the table.

“There,” he said with a smile, “much better.”

“…You enjoyed doing that, didn’t you?” Sherlock huffed with a small, soft edged grin.

John grinned shyly at him, “Yeah. I… I’ve missed being able to help people.”

“You always help me,” Sherlock told him, unexpectedly touching the side of John’s face, the plaster rough against his jawline. Pulling his hand away quickly, Sherlock took a step back and lifted his patched finger in awkward gratitude and strolled back to his place bent over his notes. “Come back to me…later. So I can check on the progression.”

John coughed with a blush and a nod, then made his way back to the living room, his skin tingling from the affectionate touch. It didn’t take more than ten minutes for the other tooth to fall out though, and he returned in quick time, running his tongue carefully over the new one below. Much as the first, it was tapered to a sharp point, and from the way his gums felt, it was likely that they would be slightly longer than the rest of his teeth. How that would work out anatomically speaking, he had no idea, but then nothing much of this had made sense so far, so he just decided to wait and see. He presented the tooth in a similar fashion to the first time, and waited for Sherlock to examine it, and him.

Putting gloves on this time, Sherlock pressed on the gums and peered closely, “Not much swelling anymore,” he remarked in a murmur. “Any pain?”

“Just when you poke it,” John replied, wincing but mostly staying still.

“Hm,” he replied, pressing down with his fingernail a little to look for the sharp tip nestled in John’s gums. Sherlock felt around behind the teeth and traced the lump of the descending tooth with curiosity. “All right.” He let John go and picked up John’s unattached teeth, looking them over again.

Running his tongue over the holes again, John sighed, “At least I can have a drink now.”

Sherlock glanced at him, “Continue to keep tabs on the when they really start to emerge.”

“Of course,” John agreed, and poured himself a mug of blood.

The next couple of hours were full of tedious waiting and uninteresting TV while the teeth steadily pushed through. It was a strange process, and John could feel the descent like a strange ache every so often. Once they seemed to have come all the way out, sitting at a similar length to the rest of his teeth, he showed Sherlock, but was then informed that they had not finished growing yet. It wasn’t until lunchtime, and what must have been at least half a dozen checks, that he was satisfied that they had finally settled.

Sherlock was bent over the table when he went to him, on one of his little ‘breaks’ with his nose squashed into the knuckles one of his hands. He had been writing something in the notepad beforehand, and there was a dark line where the pen had dragged along the page before tumbling from his fingers completely. It sat nearby, still slightly rolling, and John just plucked it up and set it on the table, picking up his mug to make him some more coffee while he waited.

The detective jerked back awake gently when the kettle clicked, his mouth curling down as he rubbed his face and straightened up, “Let me see them.” he told John, obviously having seen John from the corner of his eyes.

John finished setting up the coffee first before turning around to face Sherlock and lowering himself into the seat next to him. He ran his tongue over them one last time before opening his mouth to present his new canines. It felt almost insanely amusing to do so and he had to quickly stifle a rising need to laugh.

Sherlock leaned forward, tugging John’s lip up, “Well,” he breathed with a wobbly sort of voice. Pulling on some more gloves, Sherlock reached to press and touch and rub the new teeth, and the gums surrounding them, frowning in attention.

John just breathed shallow breaths, waiting for the examination to be over… but then there came the most peculiar feeling from his gums. It was like when he moved his nose, mixed with when tensed his muscles. With widening eyes Sherlock leaned back and blinked rapidly, looking stunned. His heart began to thunder. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He was frozen in place, still blinking and surprised.

John closed his mouth and frowned at him, “Sherlock?” He was about to say more, but his tongue brushed the back of his teeth, and he had to touch them again to be sure but… his teeth were small again. Normal. How did that happen?

Sherlock shifted and frowned deeply, trying to speak a few moments but stopping each and every time. He squinted and reached up to touch his head, as if he was experiencing a sudden onset of one massive migraine, and breathed through his nose roughly. Whatever had happened had dazed and perplexed him, and Sherlock was trying to understand, trying to make sense of what he’d seen.

Already seeing where this new change was leading his friend, John took Sherlock’s face in hand and started to knead at his brow with his fingertips, “Take it slow. You’ve got this.”

“I…” Sherlock started, eyes jumping from side to side and then zeroing in on John’s mouth. He stared as he trembled slightly under John’s hand, his heart still racing as he tried to come to terms with what he’d just witnessed.

“Just breathe,” John continued to calm him, “Copy me. In. Out.” He breathed through his mouth, in for two, out for two, keeping his lips small and his teeth hidden.

Sherlock mirrored him and then abruptly grabbed for John’s face, pressing around his mouth and feeling his skull, “They retracted,” he said with a shaking voice, his fingers unsteady as he mapped John’s features and prodded his upper jaw through the skin. “They moved. I don’t…I need to…”

“Okay, okay,” he said, moving his hands to wrap around Sherlock’s wrists. “Slowly. One thing at a time.” He rubbed the backs of Sherlock’s hands with his thumbs. “What do you need to know?”

“How did you do it?” Sherlock asked him. “Facial muscles? – There is no hinge. Nothing that I can see or feel. It…doesn’t…I don’t…” He stopped talking and screwed his eyes shut for a second.

John allowed him a moment to collect himself before answering, still rubbing at his hands, “It felt like when I tense a muscle, mixed with how I move my nose. I don’t know how it happened exactly, but that’s what it felt like.”

Sherlock seemed to relax a fraction at the news and inclined his head, “All right,” he whispered, seeming to focus on John’s touches to calm his heart rate. “All right…”

He smiled at him, “What else do you need to know?”

“I need to…check them again,” Sherlock mumbled, gesturing for John to open his mouth once more and waited semi-patiently as John nodded and did so, pulling back his top lip so Sherlock could see.

Sherlock went back to touching, mapping and examining them, his lips pressed tightly into a thin line as he did so. He carefully felt the shape of them and leaned closer still to look, using his small magnifying glass at one point to see them in greater detail. “Looks like they lack enamel,” he mumbled. “They’re sharp. Razor sharp. Without enamel, it means they will remain so permanently…”

“Fun,” John lisped, already looking forward to the many times he would no doubt cut his lip, tongue and inner mouth on them.

“Remember what I told you about your blood,” Sherlock said, looking John in the eyes as he put down his magnifying glass and moved his thumbs to John’s gums, his fingers pressing at his cheeks and under his eyes. He felt around, his head tipped to one side, and he kept eye contact with John for longer than needed.

John nodded slightly, somewhat glad that it didn’t take long for him to heal any more, but still…

Suddenly, the strange tightening feeling happened again, and he flinched slightly when he felt the teeth slide out of his gums. Sherlock stiffened in reaction and then removed his fingers slowly, attention back on John’s mouth as he let up on the pressure and allowed John’s teeth to retract once more. He tilted his head the other way, pushed on the same spot, and garnered the same results. Sherlock seemed interested and focused, and he let go and pressed down several more times before he was satisfied and removed his fingers completely.

John moved his upper lip about and massaged his gums with his hand, a strange, tingling feeling running in the space between his jaw and nose, “That felt weird,” he mumbled as he watched Sherlock carefully.

Sherlock hummed in reply with an absent tone, still looking extremely thrown by the whole ordeal. The impossible mutations happening to John seemed to have taken quite the toll on Sherlock, and he looked more pallid and distant as he turned for the notepad, drawing diagrams and labelling them, before writing descriptions and facts and theories surrounding them all. Instead of returning to the living room again, John sat next to Sherlock, moving close so that their arms were brushing against each other in a show of comfort. He watched Sherlock work in silence, pushing down on the rising urge to run again, instead allowing one of his legs to bounce slightly under the table.

Sherlock glanced at him a second later and then reached to cradle John’s chin in his hand softly, “Smile for me.”

John frowned at the request, but then nodded, and dredged up thoughts and memories that made him happy. The moment he got his medical licence, when he completed basic training, the smiles and laughs he shared with Bill Murray and his other friends… the first time he and Sherlock ran through the streets after Jefferson Hope, that feeling of accomplishment after a case, those moments of recognition Sherlock gave him, the awe he felt every time he made a deduction, how much the man cared about such an ordinary man as he. He smiled brightly.

Automatically, Sherlock began to return it while he looked, “Mm – All right,” he said, looking into John’s eyes, hand still supporting his jaw **,** and John let the smile fade to something he would usually give strangers, or wasn’t quite happy enough to show one. It was closed mouthed, instead of tooth showing, but he winced slightly when he felt the new canines cut through his inner lip.

Sherlock stroked just under John’s bottom lip with his thumb tip, and then pulled his hand away, turning to collect John’s unattached teeth, “Might have to wear caps if you want to have them looking the same. It’ll cut down on injuries and would hide the new canines,” he said. “Of course you must learn to control the…extension of your…new teeth, because caps would not prevent that.”

“Yeah,” John nodded, pushing a hand down on his bouncing leg to keep it calm. “How long do you think those would take to make?”

“You may go for a run John, you know,” Sherlock sighed with a look downwards.

He shook his head, “I can wait. This is more important.”

Sherlock arched his eyebrow but let it pass, “Two weeks or so I’d imagine, though I cannot be sure. I am not a dentist.” he replied. “They are not overly noticeable, your new teeth – I mean, they are to me, but…” He shrugged and waved one hand airily. “I suppose it is mainly up to you whether you think you need caps or not.”

“I’d rather not slice into my mouth every time I speak,” John replied jokingly, rising to pace back and forth. “I’m going to put my shoes on. Are you coming with me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, glancing down at the teeth in his palm for a moment and then moving off to slip on his own shoes and grab his coat.

The two of them stepped out into the back alleys of London not two minutes later, and were jumping over various obstacles and running down passageways. It was probably a few turns away from the park that John had to stop though, the smell of blood from a drug addict shooting up nearby causing his teeth to emerge, and he ended up groaning in surprise when they cut into his lip.

Sherlock turned to him in alarm and stepped up to his side, “Careful,” he murmured. “Don’t spill any.”

John raised a hand over his mouth as he leaned forward and kept his mouth open so he didn’t do it again. He felt a drop land on his hand, but that was it, and he assumed that the marks had healed. He licked at his lips and his hand, hoping he’d gathered all of it up, but his teeth were still too long to do much more.

“What triggered it?” Sherlock asked as he reached to cup John’s face, massaging and pressing with his thumbs to try and relax him.

“Smell bloo’,” he replied, trying not to close his mouth, gesturing in the general direction of the addict with his hand, “Tha’ way.” He wriggled his nose and pressed against his lip to get the teeth to retract, but nothing happened. He was still twitching with pent up energy as well, and everything suddenly felt like it was coming to a head.

Sherlock took his wrist and pulled him away, looking around and taking them another path with only a brief look at his phone. They circled half way around the park, never truly going to it, always hidden in back alleys and behind buildings. Sherlock turned to him and lifted his eyebrows in question, gesturing around with his other hand to ask if they were a good distance away from the source of the blood **,** and John nodded, sucking back on his saliva that was threatening to dribble out of his mouth and massaged his gums. Slowly, he felt something in his face relax, and then tense, and the teeth slid back into their original position.

They cut quickly into the Park after that and Sherlock finally let go of his wrist, checking the time and then glancing around, “Go on then.”

“I’ll come straight back if something happens,” he said as he started off, sending Sherlock a wave over his shoulder as he left. As luck would have it a child had fallen over at some point between his second and third lap of the Park, and had scraped his knee. John had to make a wide detour around him, keeping his lips firmly pressed together as the expected happened once again. To keep from scratching his inner lip on accident though, he ended up closing his jaw, and by the time he reached Sherlock, his lower teeth were aching.

Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched at the look of John’s face but he said nothing and merely gestured John to follow him back to the flat swiftly. On the way back, the teeth managed to slide up again, but the ache in his lower jaw persisted, and John kept rubbing at it, trying to sooth it. By the time they reached the back door, his lower teeth were feeling incredibly fragile and unstable, and he was breathing through his mouth to cool them down.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked as they stepped in and walked up the stairs, his attention fixated on John. He turned to him once they were back in the kitchen, and reached for his jaw. “Let me see.”

“Bottom teeth hurt,” he explained hastily before allowing Sherlock to examine them.

Sherlock frowned and stepped close, pulling down John’s bottom lip, “Hurt how? Explain?”

“They ache,” he replied, “feel delicate.”

Pushing with his thumb and then his fingers, Sherlock exhaled with a hum, “They’re a bit unstable,” he said, wobbling them a little.

John pulled away when he felt the twitch of muscle beneath his nose and the canines slid out again, only just missing catching Sherlock’s fingers. He closed his mouth to swallow the gathering saliva automatically, pressing the… fangs… to the fragile teeth for a moment and he winced when he felt something move.

Looking annoyed, Sherlock moved back in and forced his lips aside to see, “Open.” John complied with a quiet inhale, his tongue brushing against the back of his teeth a little **.** “…And close. Gently,” Sherlock told him after a few seconds of silence, in which he stared and scrutinised and pressed at John’s teeth.

Slowly, carefully, John closed his jaw, wincing slightly as he felt bone scrape against bone, and a pulling, stretching sensation in his gums. Cupping John’s nape, Sherlock did the exact same thing as he had done previously, staring and pressing, and then feeling around John’s entire lower jaw, “All right,” he mumbled, frowning a little. “If it gets worse or they become more loose, tell me.”

“What is it?” he asked, “Are there… more?”

“There are no lumps or signs of any more new teeth,” Sherlock answered, fingers absentmindedly shifting with the short hairs at the back of John’s head. “It merely seems as if your new canines are…making room for themselves between your lower teeth.”

John blinked. “Oh… well, that’s… that’s good, right?” He swallowed and licked at the inside of his mouth where he had cut through the skin while talking.

Sherlock made a vague motion with one shoulder, “Either they’re meant to move. Or they’re not. If they’re not, you’ll have some problems because of the suddenness of it all. They’re a little unstable and the more your canines push and grind, the more problems it’ll cause – However, considering what’s happened and what’s recently been happening…this could very likely be all apart of the process—It makes sense. In an outrageous kind of way.”

“Okay,” John nodded, relaxing a little at how this could actually be a way to help him live with this. The fingers at the base of his skull helped a little too though. Maybe more than a little. In fact, it shot pleasurable tingles up and down his spine, and warmed his chest.

Smiling gently, Sherlock continued to stroke through John’s hair for a bit and then trailed his hand down and over to his shoulder, “If there are any other changes, tell me,” he said.

“Yeah,” he agreed, raising his hand to rest it on Sherlock’s arm, unable to resist the need to touch him in return. “As soon as it happens.”

“Good. Good.” Sherlock said. He stayed awkwardly in place gazing at John’s face, kneading and gripping at John’s shoulder as they regarded one another, the air between them strangely electrified, and then Sherlock looked away and moved to shrug out of his coat and take off his shoes.

John huffed out a breath and blinked, moving into the living room to remove his own shoes, and settling on his chair to watch TV – which he noticed neither of them had turned off before they’d left. For the rest of the afternoon, he kept his mouth closed and jaw set in the same place, save for when he made himself a mug of blood (and Sherlock some coffee) at around dinnertime. Drinking around fangs was a challenge and a half, but he managed not to spill too much.

It was about this time that he noticed that the ache had vanished, probably having been slowly easing away all day, and he poked at his teeth with his tongue experimentally. “Sherlock,” he said as he poked at them, “I think they’ve settled.”

Sherlock came over to him and tapped his cheek, “Show me.” Once again, John opened wide, being careful not to nip Sherlock on his teeth, and waited as Sherlock pushed at them first, and then tried to wobble them, before bending closer, “Good,” he declared.

“Good?” John repeated, feeling the now familiar muscle twitch that made the teeth retract again.

“Good,” Sherlock nodded, pressing his lips together. “They’ve moved. Very slightly. But that’s all. – Clearly it was as predicted. It’s to do with…everything. With the changes with your body. You’ve got longer, sharper canines that extend and retract, so the teeth below had to move.” He looked overwhelmed again and, with what looked like instinct alone, he reached out to touch John’s face to console and compose himself.

John mirrored the action, and also covered Sherlock’s hand with his own, “Okay. Yes, that’s good.” He stroked Sherlock’s cheek lightly and smiled.

“…I’m not going to succeed, am I?” Sherlock whispered lowly, so quiet that a normal person wouldn’t have heard or understood him. He frowned in sorrow and then resentment, his fingers flexing against John’s skin.

“No, Sherlock,” John moved so that he was holding Sherlock’s face in both hands. “Don’t give up on me now.”

“You’ve lost your teeth,” Sherlock said. “Let’s say I find a way to…treat this. To get rid of it. To get you back – How is it going to affect you? How will you go back to how you were after all of these changes? – The accelerated healing, the altered senses, the blood consumption, the muscles, the teeth!--All of it!” He clenched his eyes shut. “I won’t give up, but…” Sherlock threw his hands up and his chin crumpled temporarily as he avoided eye contact.

“Hey, hey,” John pulled at Sherlock’s chin, “Remember what we said? I’m still me, Sherlock, and if… if you can’t change this, then we learn. We learn how to live with it. But we’re still the same in the most important ways, alright? Understand?”

“I very much dislike being a failure,” Sherlock told him in a monotone. “I made a promise to you, to myself, that I’d fix this. – But I won’t, will I? This thing will just continue to shift and mutate and divide and consume and alter, until you’re so far away from what you used to be, that even if I could change you back, I probably shouldn’t because of the damage it may cause. It’s fusing to you. Fusing so tightly, that to rip it away would be to tear into you, tear you apart—It transforms with you. It’s never the same. It hides. Disguises itself as other cells. It’s extremely difficult to find, John. And with the constant shifting, it’s even more difficult to cure. – And all these things it’s doing to you. They might not be reversible. And if they are…I don’t know what that would entail.”

John’s breath caught in his throat. Fused. It was… fused to him. “We… w-we don’t know that. It could… stop tomorrow. Or… or the day after.”

“Yes. It might. But that doesn’t change what it’s already done. How much of you it’s affected and bonded with,” Sherlock muttered.

John’s fingers tightened on Sherlock’s face, and he pulled them away quickly before he was able to bruise, “We’ve already gotten used to this so… so far.” His hands twitched. “We can work through this.”

Sherlock cupped the back of John’s nape again, fingers in his hair, “I will still try,” he told John with a determined yet sombre tone, “but I shall not lie to you, John, or myself. I _can’t_.”

He closed his eyes, leaning forward to rest his head against Sherlock’s and breathed, “Tell me it’s all going to be okay, Sherlock. Tell me… Tell me I’ll be alright. _Please_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s hand tightened on his neck, “You’ll be fine,” he replied. “You’re John Watson.”

His hands twitched again, and he raised them to clutch at Sherlock’s shirt. After a few moments, he nodded, “I believe you,” he murmured, and let the tension drain out of him.

“Life will be cruel. Difficult. Dangerous – But that hasn’t changed,” Sherlock told him, stroking down the back of his neck soothingly though a little shyly.

John chuckled and stepped a little closer, wrapping his hands around Sherlock’s back instead, “Life would be boring if it wasn’t a little dangerous.”

“Very boring. Incredibly so.” Sherlock agreed as he flashed him a grin and pulled John against him more. “Peace and quiet is overrated and tedious.”

John rested his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder, tilting his head into his curls as he hummed, “Though finding body parts in the fridge I could do without.”

“Hm. Well. You already approved on a second, mini fridge for food, so I can have as many body parts in the fridge as I want,” Sherlock rumbled, his heartbeat increasing with fondness, warming the skin of Sherlock’s throat. “At any rate, I label them. Put them on their own shelf…sometimes. Isn’t that good enough? I don’t have to do that, but I do that for you.”

John just nodded, his fangs lowering again as he listened to Sherlock’s heartbeat, “And I am grateful. So, so grateful.” He clutched tighter to the back of Sherlock’s shirt, overcome with sudden affection even as he tried to ignore the sharp tips of his teeth. “I don’t know where I’d be if I hadn’t met you.”

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat before he huffed a short laugh, “You’re being too sentimental now,” he mumbled with the hand still on John’s neck delving into John’s hair again.

“Shut up,” he smirked. “You love it really.”

“No wonder your blog posts are hideously romanticised,” Sherlock went on to say teasingly. “You’re overly soppy.”

“I’m a romantic, so sue me.”

Sherlock laughed again and turned his head to glance at him slightly with a soft gaze. He looked comfortable and pleased for the moment, face coloured from a faint blush on his cheeks that he’d no doubt deny if John ever mentioned it, and he was relaxed and warm, exuding calm and responding attachment.

John returned the smile, but it turned into a hiss when his lip caught on his teeth again, “For God’s sake…”

Arching his eyebrow, Sherlock watched him and shifted his posture, tensing up a little as he kept an eye out for any blood spillage, “Seems a bit sporadic?” he murmured, mostly to himself.

He sucked the inside of his lip until it stopped bleeding, “It was your heartbeat,” he explained, twitching his nose and scrunching his lips to try and get the fangs to go back. Surprisingly enough, they did, and he sighed in relief.

Sherlock blinked, “Oh. Right. Of course,” he said, the blush on his face increasing blotchily even as his expression remained somewhat impassive. “Can you hear it all the time? Must be annoying. – You must try and block it out.”

“I haven’t really been… trying…” John rubbed at the back of his head in embarrassment. “It’s kind of soothing. Helps me… concentrate, sometimes. To focus.”

“It would distract me. Hearing two pairs of heartbeats with two different rhythms,” Sherlock muttered while his heart sped up a fraction again with a flutter. “Though I suppose Mrs Hudson’s is more muffled, being downstairs?”

“It all becomes background noise really, if it’s outside the flat,” he agreed, “Though, I am right next to you right now.” He looked over his shoulder at the door. “I sort of… zone out when I’m outside. It’s only when I smell blood that anything other than the immediate area comes into focus.”

Sherlock tilted his head in intrigue and moved his warm hand to John’s shoulder, “Mm.”

John smirked, knowing he’d caught Sherlock’s attention and took a hesitant step back, “Do you want to take notes?”

“The notes are for you,” Sherlock told him. “Zoning out is good. It helps. A lot.” He grinned lopsidedly.

John muffled a laugh with his hand, “Oh, it all makes sense now.”

Sherlock’s grin widened and then he moved away, noticing how he was still touching and standing close to John with a coy sort of expression, “Some things still get through, unfortunately. Things and people. – Anderson being one of those people,” he said, reminding John of when he’d shut the door in Anderson’s face as well as demanded he turn his back during their first ever case together.

John snickered again. “I can see how that could be a problem.” He looked over at the kitchen with a smile, “Does his mere presence really rile you so much?”

“No. It depends what he does and says,” Sherlock replied.

“Or if he speaks at all?” John asked with a raised brow and a grin.

Sherlock tried and failed to stifle his immense amusement, “He is rather irritating though? You must agree?”

He tilted his head to the side, “His attitude does leave a lot to be desired…”

“Exactly.”

John chuckled once more, and looked over at the kitchen again, looking at the table, littered with notes, mugs and experiments, at the cage of mice, at the microwave, the fridge, and realised something with a frown, “I haven’t been hungry all day.”

Sherlock frowned, “You had blood at dinner.”

“Habit,” John explained, trying to think when the last time he really did feel hungry was, and only recalling the feeling of an empty stomach within the past day.

“You haven’t felt hunger?” Sherlock asked him and gave him a curious glance. “At all?”

“Not since yesterday.”

“Are we talking hunger pains or just regular hunger?” Sherlock questioned.

John lowered a hand to his stomach in thought, “I haven’t had hunger pains in days.”

“That’s…great,” Sherlock said, though he was squinting at John with a crease between his brows.

“Maybe… Maybe I don’t need so much blood any more?” he asked, “I mean, I’ve been having less and less as time goes on.”

Sherlock hummed and then suddenly left the room, went down the stairs, got into Mrs Hudson’s flat, and came back with shortbread, a handful of wrapped Lindor balls, an apple, and a banana, “I know you said you don’t feel hungry but have some,” he told John.

John just frowned down at them, “I thought I couldn’t eat food any more.”

“Eat,” Sherlock demanded, holding out the apple first.

He took it warily, stared at Sherlock in confusion for a moment, and then bit into it. He almost spat it back out again in surprise. “Oh my God…”

“Oh. Not good?”

“I can taste it,” John muttered, almost reverently, as he looked down at the apple and bit into it again with a delighted moan. Food. He could eat _food_ again! Oh God, it was _heaven_!

Sherlock beamed at him but frowned in the same instance, putting down the other foodstuffs to grab the notepad, mumbling to himself rapidly, scratching the back of his head and then roughly dragging his fingers to and fro through his hair in confusion. John remained caught in his delirium for a few more moments before fully noticing how Sherlock was reacting, at which point he placed the half eaten fruit on the table and moved to stand beside his flat mate. Slowly, he reached up to smooth his hand over Sherlock’s before he caused himself any serious damage.

“This is good. This is good? Yes. It’s good. Of course it’s good. Food tastes like it should again and…it’s fine. It’s more than fine,” Sherlock rambled. “More than fine— _Why_ though? Were you merely in the ‘infant stage’ of this development and therefore needed the correct sustenance, in this case blood, to be able to grow and form the correct…” He trailed off and then made a growl of frustration, yanking at a handful of curls. Breathing deeply, Sherlock composed himself and looked at John. “It’s fine. I’m fine. This is all…dandy.”

John kept a hold of his hand, rubbing the back of it with his thumb, “So, it might be over then?” He looked down at the table, at the experiments, and the food. “This… this might be it?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know! – This _thing_! This…virus! It’s wrong. It’s impossible. It makes no logical sense! None!” Sherlock shouted, calming again quickly and unconsciously entangling their fingers together as he dropped his hand to his side.

“Then let’s find out, yeah?” he said, giving Sherlock’s hand a squeeze, “Won’t take long.”

Sherlock shot him a half-hearted glare, “Give me a moment,” he mumbled, rubbing his face with his other hand.

“Take all the time you need.”

“…Eat the rest. Might as well,” he said, nodding to the shortbread and chocolate.

John looked at it for a moment, and then turned back to Sherlock, “Only if you have some too.”

“Not hungry.”

“One bite of chocolate. That’s all I’m asking.”

Sherlock sighed loudly, “I’m not hungry.”

John huffed and, picking up one of the chocolate balls, unwrapped it with his teeth and free hand… and then unceremoniously stuffed it in past Sherlock’s lips and crushed it against his teeth and into his mouth. Sherlock leaned back in surprise with a jolt, reaching for the crushed chocolate, and blinked at John, his mouth and teeth, and some of his chin, smeared in chocolate. He gaped for a second and then glowered weakly, before he snorted with laughter. John chuckled in return and took a bite out of the shortbread biscuit, giving Sherlock’s shoulder a nudge with his own.

Sherlock smiled at him and then reached for another chocolate, only to unwrap it one handed and shove it into John’s mouth in rebuttal childishly, lifting his eyebrows, “You started it.”

He shrugged in return, happily eating it and finishing off the biscuit, “You ate it.”

Pulling a face, Sherlock gestured with another chocolate ball, “You all but shoved it down my throat!” he complained, making John snigger as he waved it about before he ate it and licked his lips, tugging John over by his hand, demanding for John to present his arm with a glance. “Arm.” He reached quickly for another syringe.

John raised a brow, and shook the hand that Sherlock was still holding. Blushing with a rush of colour and a hard pulse of his heart, Sherlock let go and stepped back, looking down as he glared and fiddled with the antiseptic. John chuckled silently to himself and picked up the tubing that Sherlock was going to use as a tourniquet and wrapped it around his upper arm as tight as he could.

Sherlock took the sample speedily, still efficient despite the flush on his face, and then moved away from John without a word. For the next several minutes, John just watched Sherlock work as he finished off the food he’d been given, taking a seat at the table, and smiled whenever Sherlock paused to glance at him from the corner of his eyes and reached for another chocolate. As time moved on, John found himself less inclined to leave, so he simply stayed, watching and occasionally reading some of the notes. He didn’t even notice he’d fallen asleep until the dreams began.


	7. Chapter 7

_“It could be dangerous,” the detective said with a grin, then turned with a dramatic whirl of his coat, and disappeared over the next sand dune.  
_ _John blinked after him, and followed instinctively, jumping over the dune-  
_ _-only to land in the alley around the corner from Baker Street. Red beads littered the floor, rolling aside when his feet came in contact with them, only to spread into a speckled mess of blood.  
_ _As he watched, the blood slowly pooled together, creating one huge puddle, and John could see his reflection within it. He could see dark liquid dripping from the corner of his mouth, and he drew his hand up to wipe it away.  
_ _However, arms encircled him from behind, one of the hands resting over his heart, and the other at his hip. He felt lips caress his neck, and warm breath tickled his skin as a familiar nose buried itself in his cheek.  
_ _“Come away, John,” Sherlock whispered to him, his hands gripping tight as he felt his body tipping forwards again, like it always did, but the arms were holding him up this time. “Come away.”  
_ _“I can’t,” he replied, leaning his head into Sherlock’s, “It’s a part of me now.”  
_ _Something wet and warm dribbled from his mouth, and the ground sunk beneath him, bringing him down, and dragging Sherlock with him.  
_ _“Sherlock,” he gasped, “You have to let go.”  
_ _“I’m not going anywhere,” he replied, and the arms only wrapped tighter around him, even as the blood dribbled and dripped around them, “You are John Watson. You will always be John Watson.”_

* * *

John blinked awake, confused by the sudden change in his dream, but unsure whether he should be pleased or concerned. Instead, he focused on lifting his head off the table and stretching, groaning when he heard little cracks and clicks.

Sherlock was leaning on the table opposite staring at him up close, and he tilted his head when John focused on him, looked faintly curious, and then spoke, “Morning.”

“Morning?” John looked over to the window and saw the sunlight peeking through. “Ah. Whoops.”

As he became more aware, gathering his wits about him, he noticed that there was the faint smell of toast in the air and before John could ask about it, Sherlock placed a plate full of several slices of jam covered toast in front of him with a smug expression and a quirk of his mouth, putting a glass of orange juice beside it. He then leaned back and straightened up, returning to his microscope and replacing the slide with a flourish.

John blinked down at the meal in shock, then up at Sherlock in an equal amount of surprise, “Did you… go shopping?”

“No,” Sherlock replied with a significant glance at the door. It had been Mrs Hudson then.

He rolled his eyes, but picked up a slice of the toast, “We really need to thank her properly at some point.” He bit into the browned bread with a happy sigh, and took a sip of the juice to wash it down. He had no idea how much he’d missed this until this moment.

“She did it of her own volition,” Sherlock told him. “She even cooed over you. _Cooed_! It was ridiculous – Then she told me off for leaving you to sleep on the table.”

“She came up here then?” John asked, taking another bite.

“Invaded more like,” Sherlock groused. “I had to hide the mice and stop her from going into the fridge. Twice.”

He winced, “That would have been…interesting.”

Sherlock huffed in agreement, “I would like another sample later on today. Not now. But later,” he said, changing the subject easily.

“Of course,” John agreed, polishing off the slice, and then starting on the second. He continued to eat in silence for another minute, but then he sighed, ducking his head forward. “It was you, this time.”

“…Undoubtedly because you could subconsciously sense my presence,” Sherlock told him.

“No, I mean, it was but…” He ran a hand through his hair. “You were the one who held me in the alley this time, but… you _saved_ me. You kept me from falling in and tried to pull me away.”

Sherlock looked over at him after a long, tense, awkward silence, “Good,” he whispered softly.

John shook his head, bringing his other hand to join the first in his hair as he bowed even further over his plate, “No. I… I couldn’t leave. I just… I remember saying that it was a part of me now, and the blood was still everywhere, but you wouldn’t let go and… and…”

Leaving his work, Sherlock walked around to him and hesitated a moment before placing his hand between John’s shoulder blades, “Sounds a lot better than mine. Heaps better,” he said ineptly, trying to alleviate the mood.

John snorted a wet laugh, and reached back to touch his fingers with Sherlock’s, “I’m going to drag you into becoming this if I’m not careful,” he said, “One wrong move, one mistake, is all it would take.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock told him firmly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He flinched, gripping tighter to his fingers, “You said that in my dream too.”

“Even as a dream version of myself I know sense,” Sherlock replied light-heartedly as he leaned down beside him, moving to grasp John’s fingers in response and bring their entwined hands forward onto the table in front of him, nudging the plate aside. “I realise that is a particular risk, John. I’ve known this for a while now. – Just like I know you could be a risk to others if you’re not vigilant. It’s not a new concept to me.” He eyed John’s knuckles and then dipped his chin toward his own chest with a grimace. “It’s one of the many reasons I wanted to fix this.”

John nodded in thanks, and smiled at their joined hands, feeling the same tingling up his spine, the same bloom of affection, “I’m sorry about falling asleep on you last night. I didn’t realise I was that tired.”

“I didn’t notice you’d dropped off until at least three hours after the fact,” Sherlock admitted with a shrug and a small smirk.

“How did you know it was three hours?”

Sherlock arched his eyebrow, “I deduced.”

John sent him an incredulous look, somehow knowing that Sherlock was lying and must have known he’d fallen asleep earlier than that, “Have you watched me sleep before?”

Sherlock gave him a long, pondering look, “If I said no, would you believe me?”

“Why the hell have you been watching me sleep?” he asked, more amused than anything else.

Waving his free hand dismissively, Sherlock tried to brush the subject aside, “Eat the rest of your toast. Mrs Hudson made it specially.”

Snorting again, John picked up the last piece of his toast and bit into it, letting Sherlock’s hand go so that he could return to his work, “We really do need to go shopping soon.”

Sherlock lingered for a bit, his hand curling gently into a loose fist where it was left on the table, “You can go later – A few more days later at most,” he said.

“Or we could order in,” John said, draining his juice, “Tesco does deliveries, you know.”

“Yet you’ve never used such a thing since living here – And I’m not sure where all this ‘we’ stuff is coming from. I shan’t order or go anywhere for food,” Sherlock told him, though he paused and conceded with a sigh, waving both hands around as he strolled away. “Unless it’s Chinese. Or Indian. Or fish and chips. Or a celebratory meal after a case. Or we decided to go to Angelo’s – But that’s it.”

“I prefer getting the shopping myself,” John explained, moving his dishes to the sink and putting the kettle on, “And it’s ‘we’ because you _will_ be eating some of it. I’m only bringing it up so we can tide ourselves over until I can go out.”

Sherlock huffed and leaned back over a slide, “But that’s what Mrs Hudson is for.”

“No, it’s not,” he replied, pulling two mugs out of the cupboard and the now near empty packet of coffee, “As she says; she’s our landlady, not our housekeeper.” He scooped a teaspoon of granules into one mug and put the packet away, pulling out a flask from another cupboard.

“Yet she insists on cleaning up, moving my skull, rearranging books and throwing off the organisation,” Sherlock grumbled under his breath as he gave the living room a quick once over, bringing John’s attention to how different it looked. John, now with his heightened senses, could see exactly what was moved and to where.

His playing cards, once scattered about the table next to the sofa, were now collected in a neat pile, Yorik (and he would forever be Yorik to John’s mind) was on the desk rather than the mantelpiece, papers had been gathered and stacked, books shelved, and it looked as though the rubbish bins had been emptied. “I didn’t realise I was such a heavy sleeper,” John frowned as he examined the strange sight.

“She was quiet,” Sherlock replied. “Normally she’ll prattle on but seeing you sleeping quietened her – Plus I told her to shut up.”

“ _Sherlock_!”

“She kept asking me annoying questions.”

“You don’t tell people to ‘shut up’,” John told him closing the door to the microwave, “it’s rude!”

“Shut up.”

John glared at him, and then shook his head, returning to Sherlock’s coffee as the kettle finished boiling, “Still rude, no matter how you say it.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Good.”

He finished making the coffee and set it next to Sherlock, setting a hand on his shoulder as he leaned down, “Why do I put up with you again?”

Sherlock grinned and glanced at him from the corner of his eyes, “Because I’m ‘amazing’ and ‘brilliant’ and ‘extraordinary?’” he said with a cocky expression, angling his head for the briefest of moments, bringing their faces close.

John huffed at him and turned to the microwave, “Shut up.”

“Rude.”

“You deserve it,” he replied, pulling the mug out and settling back in his seat again.

“Why? Because I’m right?” Sherlock asked, reaching for his coffee to take a quick sip.

“Because you’re an arrogant tosser, that’s why,” John said, tasting his own drink and sighing in bliss as the heat travelled down his throat.

Sherlock hummed and looked over at him, “Hm. Because I’m right,” he murmured, taking another sip to hide his smug smile whilst John just scoffed and hid a smirk of his own.

After that, the day passed much as every other had since the whole thing began; very slowly. John did end up ordering for some shopping, though only enough for about a week, and an extra carton of milk for Mrs Hudson, which she refused to take at first, but upon insisting, accepted it gracefully.  
They didn’t have a second fridge yet, so John ended up cleaning and disinfecting a shelf and stuffing things where they would fit (much to Sherlock’s annoyance) so he had enough room for everything he’d bought. Once it all had been sorted though, it was back to the waiting game again, along with the now daily exercise and jog around the Park.

Sherlock ended up taking more blood a little after they got back to the flat, and then John’s day decayed into boredom. Somehow, he managed to get through to the evening, and ate his first cooked meal since the full English in Mrs Hudson’s flat the week before. After that, he read until he got tired, and then went to sleep in Sherlock’s bed.

The next day started much as the last had, though John had to make his own breakfast this time, and he even managed to get Sherlock to eat a bite. However, everything finally came to a head a few hours after returning from the Park that afternoon.

Sherlock pushed the notepad into John’s face, a mixture of emotions and expressions playing over his face, none of them John could interpret, “That was the last of it. It’s finished now, I think. You shouldn’t suffer anymore ill effects. It’s done what it was created to do,” he said in a low, deep rumbling. “The teeth were the last bit—Of course I will still double check and continue to study both it, and you, for…a long time to come before I am completely satisfied with everything.”

John blinked at the pad, pulling back slightly to take it from him and started flipping through the pages, skimming over the notes and diagrams, “It’s over?” he asked, almost scared for the confirmation that he’d already been told and was currently reading through, and looked up at Sherlock in fearful hope.

“I won’t repeat myself, John,” Sherlock sighed, rubbing his face with both of his hands and then dropping them to his sides. “You still need to keep up with the exercising. The blood drinking. Training yourself to control both your senses and your teeth, which we may still need to cap. If you want. – Although, I don’t think many, if any, will notice.” He cupped John’s chin to tilt and angle his head, looking at John’s teeth through his partially parted lips just to make doubly sure.

“I’ve stopped biting myself at least,” John mentioned, “That’s got to count for something.”

Sherlock nodded slightly, “That’s not enough though. – I’m presuming you want to go back to work and to do so you really must control the urge to extend your canines at the first scent of blood. Or someone’s heartbeat.”

“I know,” he conceded. “I’ll get there. It’s just going to take a bit of time.”

“I know that,” Sherlock retorted, almost snappily.

“Hey,” he grabble hold of Sherlock’s hand when Sherlock left it there for no foreseeable reason, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing – Why must you always think something is wrong?” Sherlock asked him, glancing briefly at John’s hand on his before he took the notepad back and walked away. He waved it as he went. “I’ll keep this, but you’re free to look at it whenever you wish.”

John blinked after him, bewildered, but not entirely surprised. Sherlock admitting to his emotions was as likely as a cat befriending a mouse. He returned his attention to his book after a few minutes, and continued to read until dinner, and then watched TV for a few hours before deciding that, though he personally wasn’t tired, sleep would be a good thing. For everyone.

Standing up, John moved to stand behind his usual seat, and rested his hands against it, watching Sherlock carefully as he examined something through the microscope for what seemed like the thousandth time, “You need a break.”

“Had one, thank you,” Sherlock replied, though he very quickly looked up at John. His expression shuttered. “You promised you wouldn’t force me.”

“And I’m going to keep that promise,” John nodded, “but it’s been almost two weeks. I have no idea how you’re still capable of thought, and I am honestly surprised you haven’t been hallucinating.” He swallowed. “You should rest. Or at least try to.”

Sherlock’s fingers twitched and shook, but only once, and only very briefly, although John caught it easily now, “I can’t,” he uttered. “I’m fine.”

John’s eyes narrowed, “What are you hiding, Sherlock?”

“Nothing,” he replied unsurprisingly, and John zeroed in on the way Sherlock’s heartbeat changed speed for barely a second. Sherlock’s eye twitched and his head shifted toward the fridge subconsciously. “I can’t sleep. So I won’t. Not yet. I don’t need to. I’m fine.”

“It’s not nothing,” John said, looking towards the fridge with a frown, but when he saw nothing… “Oh my God, you _have_ been hallucinating!” He looked towards the fridge again, and then back at Sherlock. “You saw something just now, by the fridge. Is it still there?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw, “Shut up.” he said and then looked down with a clench of his fingers, admitting with a tense breath. “They’ve been small illusions. Barely anything. It’s nothing I can’t deal with.”

“How long have you been seeing them?” John pushed, ignoring the excuses.

“It’s intermittent,” Sherlock said and then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve hardly even noticed, it hasn’t affect my work, hasn’t changed anything, so it’s nothing.”

“No, Sherlock, it’s _not_ nothing!” he cried, bringing a hand up to grab hold of his own hair, “This is _dangerous_! You could…” He blinked. “You’ve been touching me more.”

Sherlock barely moved an inch but suddenly it was as if he’d curled in on himself, withdrawn and recoiled from the room, “I prefer them. The hallucinations. I prefer it! At least with them I have more control. I can ignore them. Do something else. Be somewhere else. – In my dreams, I’m stuck. I’m trapped. I can’t _leave_. I can only blindly go onward into disaster, into horror. I’m closed in and held down and I _can’t_!” By end of it, he had shouted, and it echoed around them and even made Mrs Hudson stir, her heart rate shifting in worry.

“… Then let me help you,” John said, blinking rapidly to keep himself from tears (what had he driven him to?) “ _Please_ , Sherlock. Let me be there for you.”

“You are. You’re here now…” Sherlock looked him over. “Aren’t you?” The way he said it was as if he truly didn’t know.

John’s breath hitched and the next thing he knew, he’d dashed around the table and pulled Sherlock into his arms, holding him tight against him and threading his fingers through those deep, curly locks, “Of course I am,” he whispered into his ear, closing his eyes against the ache of his heart. “You shouldn’t even have to ask that.”

Sherlock leaned into him and reached to touch and then grip John’s arms, shoulders and then his back, breathing against John deeply and erratically, seeming overcome but being silent about it as John rubbed his back and stroked his hair, allowing Sherlock a few moments before asking again; “Will you let me help you, Sherlock?”

He didn’t answer John for well over five minutes, but John let the question hang and waited for the moment Sherlock shifted, acknowledging John’s patience with a patter of fingertips, “All right,” he mumbled, already tensing in anxiety.

“Thank you,” John sighed with a nod, and carefully pulled back a little, “I _will_ be there for you. Every second. Understand? I’m _not_ going to leave you.”

Sherlock nodded but didn’t look at him, instead watching his hand shift up John’s shoulder as Sherlock then moved away, “I’ll…get changed then,” he intoned, looking dejected.

“Call when you’re ready,” he replied, having to keep himself from following. “Even a whisper, and I’ll be there.”

John watched Sherlock slink into the bathroom and listened to him brush his teeth, wash his face, and lean against the sink for a moment. He didn’t cry or breathe differently; he just stood there, supposedly holding himself up by his hands. John could hear the way Sherlock’s nails tapped the ceramic, even over the sound of the running tap.

When he finally left he did so through the connecting door to his room and John listened to the soft, rustling sounds of him getting dressed into something other than the suit he had been wearing for too many days and nights. Sherlock then sat on his bed with a hush of fabric and remained, there, his heart rate skyrocketing. “Are you just going to stand over me and wait for the inevitable?” Sherlock asked him, voice scarcely above a whisper.

John walked into the bedroom – walked, not ran – and settled himself on the bed next to Sherlock, arm and leg flush against his, “You have to lie down.” he said softly, witnessing Sherlock’s mouth and brow contort in misery, but only for a second, before he was shifting around and under the covers to curl up on his side. He looked oddly small in the foetal position.

John pulled himself under the covers moments later, after turning off all the lights, and pressed himself against Sherlock’s back, curling protectively around him as he wound his arm around Sherlock’s chest, and ran his fingers into his curls, “I’ll be right here,” he whispered into Sherlock’s neck, “I’m going to be with you for every second.”

“I hate this. Just so you know,” Sherlock murmured in reply, though he was soothed practically instantaneously the moment John pushed close.

“I know,” he replied, rubbing his nose into his shoulder in tremendous attachment that he couldn’t repress, “We’ll get through this. Together. I promise.”

Sherlock sighed and for the longest twenty to thirty minutes, Sherlock automatically fought the creeping sleep, keeping it at bay with a flex of his legs or a jerk of his arm or hand, unwilling to let it fully consume him and almost bolting and struggling whenever it came close to doing so. However, just as before, John’s body warmth and stroking fingers made him lethargic and relaxed, and he sluggishly, unhappily, slipped into proper slumber.

John knew the moment he’d fully submerged by the rhythm of his breathing and the thump of his heart, and let Sherlock’s body slump loosely against the mattress and John’s torso. This time, though, he didn’t move; he stayed close, even pulling himself closer, as he stroked Sherlock’s hair, paying close attention to his breathing and heartbeat during the next passing moments. Although he didn’t wish for it to happen, he listened carefully for when the nightmare would begin, knowing that it inevitably would.

It happened approximately the same time into Sherlock’s sleep pattern as prior, and he once again began to bodily twitch and then breathe heavily, sobbing and fidgeting, before lurching up with a hysterical cry, wheezing with grief and scrabbling against the mattress.

John followed him, moving so that he could hold Sherlock’s face, stroking his thumbs over his cheeks and smudging the tear tracks that had trailed down them, “Shh, it’s okay. I’m still here. It wasn’t real.”

Sherlock stared at him with wide, watery eyes, and covered his mouth as he dry heaved a few times into his palm. Swallowing roughly, Sherlock coughed, sniffed and then grabbed at John with shaking hands, his face creased in deep emotion. John shifted closer and massaged the skin behind Sherlock’s ears as soothingly as he could while Sherlock mumbled incoherently between raking sobs, touching John’s scalp and face. Sherlock then blinked, stopped himself and paused all movement in mortification, still crying with an uncontrollable juddering of his chest.

John pulled him close, running fingers through his hair again as he pressed his cheek against Sherlock’s, “It’s okay. You don’t have to hold back. You’re allowed to touch me.” After three, wet hiccupping breaths, Sherlock slumped into him, burrowing his face into John’s throat. His hands cupped and touched the back of John’s head and his crown, accessing and then caressing. The muscles below John’s nose twitched in the close proximity to Sherlock’s neck, but he pushed back at it, twisting his nose to stop it. “I’m not leaving,” he whispered, holding Sherlock close. “Not _ever_.”

Sherlock continued to weep silently, breathing as slow and steady as he could, and, after a while, started to slip back to sleep in John’s arms, badly fatigued. He jerked back awake several times in quick succession, reaffirming his grasp on John and smearing tears into John’s shirt and skin, but ultimately allowed himself to rest again after John’s presence calmed the few spikes of fear he impulsively had. Slowly, John tilted them down into a more comfortable position on the bed, but took care in keeping Sherlock’s grip on him attached and firm. In the end, he lay on his back with Sherlock’s full weight on top of him. Even if he could have felt it, John wouldn’t have moved him for the world.

The nightmare returned five more times, and Sherlock shouted out, wept and clung to John, before going back to sleep, each and every time. The sixth time it looked like it might happen, actually only made Sherlock twitch and squirm and whimper, so John tightened his arms and stroked Sherlock’s hair to sooth and ease him back into comfortable sleep again. After that, Sherlock remained still and quiet against him, breathing deeply with the occasional snuffle or soft snore with his fingers loosely curled into John’s clothes.

John kept watch for a further half an hour just in case, paying close attention to every twitch, every snore, and each change in breathing and heart rate. It was exhausting, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

In the end, when he decided that there would be no more nightmares, he brushed an instinctively light kiss to Sherlock’s brow, and fell into his own deep and restful sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

_Red beads littered the floor, rolling aside when his feet came in contact with them, only to spread into a speckled mess of blood.  
__As he watched, the blood slowly pooled together, creating one huge puddle, and John could see his reflection within it. He could see dark liquid dripping from the corner of his mouth, and he drew his hand up to wipe it away.  
__However, arms encircled him from behind, one of the hands resting over his heart, and the other at his hip. He felt lips caress his neck, and warm breath tickled his skin as a familiar nose buried itself in his cheek.  
__“Come away, John,” Sherlock whispered to him, his hands gripping tight as he felt his body tipping forwards again, like it always did, but the arms were holding him up this time. “Come away.”  
__“I can’t,” he replied, leaning his head into Sherlock’s, “It’s a part of me now.”  
__Something wet and warm dribbled from his mouth, and the ground sunk beneath him, bringing him down, and dragging Sherlock with him.  
__“Sherlock,” he gasped, “You have to let go.”  
__“I’m not going anywhere,” he replied, and the arms only wrapped tighter around him, even as the blood dribbled and dripped around them, “You are John Watson. You will always be John Watson.”_  
_He closed his eyes as the first drop of blood touched his fingers, climbing over his skin and up his arm. “John Watson,” he said to himself, “I am John Watson,” the blood had reached his shoulder now, “I am John Watson,” his neck, “I am John Watson…”_

* * *

John woke with a jerk and a gasp. He blinked up at the ceiling, a line of dim morning light shining across it from between the curtains as he calmed his breathing. A foreign weight on his chest made him look down, and he couldn’t help but smile. Sherlock was still draped across him, curled slightly across his chest, fingers once tightly clutching to his shirt, now loose or curled into light fists. He was breathing steadily, deeply, and his heartbeat was calm. He was still asleep, and he looked so peaceful. John ran a finger over his forehead, brushing his hair out of the way of his eyes with a clench of explosive and sudden love for the sleeping man, but was disturbed by a buzzing noise coming from the pile of clothes on the chair.

In his sleep addled mind, it took him a few moments to understand what it was exactly, but after a few more seconds of buzzing, and then silence, John finally placed it as someone phoning one of their mobiles. Since it had stopped though, John decided to leave it be… until it started again.

With a put upon huff, John pulled himself – oh so very carefully – out from under Sherlock, making sure he was comfortable before looking through the neatly folded clothes. He eventually found the offending phone – his – in one of the trouser pockets, and found the screen alight with the words ‘Incoming call: Greg Lestrade’. He stared at it for a few more moments, and then answered it.

“Hello?” he whispered, keeping a careful eye on Sherlock.

“ _Finally_!”Lestrade exclaimed on the other end. “Hello! – Wait, you’re whispering…why are you whispering? You all right?”

“Yeah,” John replied, moving out into the corridor, but staying close to the still open door so he could keep an eye on Sherlock, “Sherlock’s asleep. I don’t want to wake him.”

“…Right,” Lestrade said, sounding confused and wary but obviously brushing it aside as he continued, “Okay, well, I’m just calling because you’ve seemed a bit off for a while now and I just wanted to check in and make sure everything was good? – In some of your texts you just…you didn’t seem like yourself somehow. Not to mention that thing with your sister—Is everything okay?”

John rolled his eyes; unsurprised that Sherlock’s replies had been more than a little off, “Yeah, well, dealing with my sister, and then finding out that Sherlock hasn’t slept in over a week… She’s okay now though, and, like I said, Sherlock’s finally sleeping.”

“How’d you get him to listen to you this time? Drug his tea?—You didn’t drug his tea, did you?” Lestrade asked, though his tone was entirely playful. “And what the hell is he doing not sleeping for a week? He has no cases that I know of?”

“It was… an experiment,” he explained carefully, “And I just talked to him. No drugs necessary.”

“ _Just_ talked to him? Are we still on about the same man here?” Lestrade scoffed light-heartedly. “Well, anyway, that’s good, because now he can’t whinge about you coming out for a drink?—Or is that in bad taste? What with your…sister and everything?”

John chuckled a little. “Maybe a little, but I’d love to! What time do… oh…” He winced thinking about his current condition, and his inability to completely control himself yet. “Uh, can I come back to you on that, actually? I want to make sure ‘his highness’ is safe to be left on his own.”

“He’ll be fine! He’ll sleep until the next day, at _least_ ,” Lestrade told him. “I could always just come and see you instead though? I’ll bring the drinks?”

He paused, conflicted. On the one hand, it was a chance to see one of his friends again in a safe and controlled environment, perhaps an important step in getting back into the world again. On the other, there was a risk of unintentionally revealing what he was. “Uh…”

“All right, well,” Lestrade sighed, “I’m taking that as a yes. I’ll drop by sometime in the afternoon, yeah? Good.”

John blinked, “Right, yeah. I’ll… see you in a couple of hours then?”

“Yeah. See you then!”

John hung up and looked down at the phone. Oh, bugger. Looking back into Sherlock’s room, he watched him sleep for a few moments before shaking himself and heading into the kitchen. It was a bit of a mess, but no more than expected really. There were a few mugs he was going to have to clean, though the mice were already hidden somewhere by Sherlock and if he remembered correctly the notes were already hidden somewhere – probably in Sherlock’s room – so there really wasn’t that much he had to do. He found himself surprised by that, though he didn’t really know why.

He made himself a bit of breakfast to tide himself over, and heated up a mug of blood, just in case, but once he’d finished both and done all the appropriate washing and tidying, he returned to Sherlock’s room to wait, just in case anything happened and he wasn’t there to counter it.

Sherlock hadn’t moved since John had slipped from the bed, but he was faintly pouting, his fingers twitching every so often against the mattress. John could hear Mrs Hudson in the flat below, humming and then tittering at the TV, before she then started cleaning up and hoovering the floor. The sound was a bit overwhelming but John quickly zoned it out by focusing on Sherlock’s heartbeat and soft breaths.  
In fact, he was so entranced and lulled by them that he didn’t realise how much time had gone by before there was a loud rapping at the front door and Mrs Hudson let Lestrade inside. The noise briefly made Sherlock jerk, though he didn’t wake. Running a hand through Sherlock’s hair, he went to greet Greg after first quickly running upstairs to change into a jumper and some now well-fitting jeans.

Lestrade lifted the bottles of beer he had with him as he met John half way and grinned, “Hey,” he said, keeping his voice down. “Sherlock still asleep?”

“Yeah, surprisingly,” he replied with a smirk of his own, though quickly lowered his upper lip, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sleep this long.”

“When Sherlock sleeps, he sleeps like the dead.” Smiling politely at Mrs Hudson, who still lingered at her doorway, Lestrade walked up and into the living room, glancing around and looking into the kitchen, “Not much of a smell – Good. His smelly experiments are the worst experiments,” he muttered and dropped down in Sherlock’s chair with a loud sigh.

John snorted and pulled a bottle opener out of the cutlery drawer before joining him, “You weren’t here last week. It was horrible!”

Lestrade frowned, “And you were? Here last week, I mean? Weren’t you at your sister’s? – When did you get back?”

“Before I left,” John explained, taking a swig of the beer he’d just opened – damn, he missed this – and passing the opener to Greg, “I got back yesterday. Don’t go in the fridge by the way.”

“Jesus…” he grimaced as he opened his bottle deftly and moved his eyes over to it. “Lungs? Hand? Head? All of the above? – I can’t believe Molly lets him just take all of that kind of… stuff. He had a box of toes once. All different kinds of big toes. Small ones, big ones, hairy ones, ones without a toenail. It was disgusting and honestly I still have no idea why he even had them in the first place. He might have told me but... I probably wasn’t paying enough attention. He can sprout a lot of nonsense when he wants to, confusing a bloke. Or what sounds awfully similar to nonsense in any case.”

“I didn’t really look long enough to see,” he shrugged, sitting in his chair, “plus he was… well, he needed to sleep, let’s put it that way.”

Lestrade nodded in understanding and sighed, “I worry for him, you know. I really do. – How can someone so smart be so _stupid_?”

“Not enough space for both?” John suggested, and then chuckled a little. “Maybe he ‘deleted’ it.”

“Hm, _Christ_ maybe he has. Who needs common sense when there’s toes to collect! Heh, well, I’m glad you’re here to keep him on track. Give him a bit of a nudge in the right direction,” Lestrade smiled, saluting with his bottle and then taking a long, refreshing gulp.

He shrugged, “It keeps things exciting.” He took another gulp himself. “So how have things been? It’s been a while since we last actually spoke.”

“Things are fine. Things are the same. Nothing new going on really,” Lestrade laughed. “Life outside of murders and kidnappings and thefts is slow, a bit dreary.”

“Lucky for some,” John said with a grin.

“What about you? – Beside the family stuff and looking after the snoozing sleuth in there, anything going on?” Lestrade said lifting his eyebrows in question as he took another swig.

He shrugged, “Met up with some old school mates before everything happened. There was talk of starting up the old rugby team again.” Not that that was possible any more. “Had to take some time off from work for… all of this. Otherwise, same old, same old.”

Lestrade nodded, “Hm,” he smiled, slumping in Sherlock’s chair while John kept an ear out for Sherlock himself, whom thankfully still hadn’t stirred.

The talk drifted onto football and then inane but amusing TV shows; some of which actually had John laughing and highly tempted to either catch a glimpse of them or watch them entirely. Lestrade had a contagious mischievous and boyish atmosphere about him, and the two actually ended up watching a few cop shows together before playing several games of cards, where Lestrade lost a total of ten pounds to John.

At the end of their last game, John glanced out the window and noticed that the street lamps had started coming on in the waning light, “Did you want to stay for dinner? I could probably whip us something up, though take out might be a little more sanitary.”

“Another time maybe, I got to get going,” Lestrade told him once he’d checked his watch and finished the last drops of his beer. He stood with a sigh and a stretch, looking toward Sherlock’s bedroom, looking half concerned and half exasperated. “You should probably feed Sherlock – Did he _just_ not sleep for a week or not eat either? Because I know he does that.”

“I think he mostly survived on coffee,” John winced. “Your coffee, by the way. Sorry about that.” He looked over into the kitchen. “I did manage to get him to eat a little before he went to bed though.”

“ _I knew it_! I just _knew_ he’d taken it.” Lestrade huffed. “Thieving wanker…”

John just chuckled and set his bottle aside as he stood, “Thanks for coming over. It’s been great seeing you again.”

“Yeah. No problem! I needed this. And I think you did too,” Lestrade said with a knowing glance as he moved over to pat John’s shoulder. “If you need me, you know where I am – That goes for Sherlock too. I have heaps of cold cases he can shift through if he’s bored enough. There’s no need to piss about with experiments without sleep for a week.”

“I’ll talk to him when he wakes up,” he nodded, knowing full well that Sherlock wasn’t going to let anything distract him before he found the cure.

“Good,” he smiled, squeezing John’s arm as he moved off to leave, “right, well, I’ll see you later then, John. – Hope things get better for your sister.”

“Yeah, me too,” John said, following Greg out and down to the front door, “Safe journey home.”

Mrs Hudson appeared just as Lestrade stepped out with a wave and a grin, and she moved to John’s side, “Everything all right?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, everything’s fine. He just thought he’d stop by to see how we were doing,” John replied, giving her a light squeeze against him as he closed the door.

“And, um, how are you doing?” she asked, glancing up at the ceiling and then lowering her voice as she pointed. “I heard a lot of shouting.”

John smirked, “Sherlock didn’t want to go to bed is all. He’s been asleep since last night now though.”

She relaxed instantly and beamed, her hand against her chest, “Oh good! – He can be such a child sometimes.”

“Just a bit,” he chuckled, giving her another squeeze, “We’re lucky to have you, Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh!” Mrs Hudson flushed with fondness and leaned into him, smelling of lavender and rubbing his arm and hand.

John twitched his nose when he felt the muscles stretch again, forcing it to stop, and leaned into her a bit before stepping back, “I’d better check on him, just in case,” he said, motioning back over his shoulder, “And maybe get some more food in him, if he’s awake.”

“Oh yes! Yes, he’s so skinny. – Perhaps I’ll make him a pie. He likes my pies,” Mrs Hudson said, giving the ceiling another glance. “All right then love. I’ll leave you to it.” She gave him a small wave with a fond wrinkle of her nose and went back inside her flat.

John smiled after her for a few moments, and then returned up to his own home, closing the door quietly behind him to listen for any sign of Sherlock’s waking. Sherlock was still breathing deeply, his heartbeat steady and his body seemingly unmoving from the position it had been in for several hours.  
As great as this was, John had been itching to run since about half way through Lestrade’s visit, and while he knew he probably could get to Regent’s Park on his own, he didn’t want to leave Sherlock to wake up alone, or risk running into someone or something he would rather not (namely Mycroft). He had to figure something out.

In the end, the answer was simple; he added squats and weights to his routine. He didn’t have any actual weights, so he ended up filling a lidded plastic box with water and using that. It was odd, and there were a few spillages, despite the lid, but he managed to work the energy out in the end.

Lingering just outside the bedroom door, John spent five minutes debating whether or not to wake up the still slumbering Sherlock, but ultimately decided against it and made himself a quick meal, with a mug full of blood. There were a few moments during said meal that Sherlock twitched or shifted in some way, and John froze to the spot to listen and wait, hoping it wasn’t another nightmare, and then went back to eating when nothing was forthcoming.

Though it was still early when he’d finished, washed and put everything away – including the two bottles, which he put in the recycling – he decided to head back to Sherlock’s bedroom with his book, putting both his and Sherlock’s phones on charge in case someone else decided to ring.

Seating himself on the bed next to the younger, sleeping man, John read to the light of the lamp, the rest of the flat in total darkness, until he found himself unable to keep himself awake any longer.

He went and brushed his teeth, staring at his own reflection as he ran the toothbrush over his new canines, wondering what his life would be like for a handful of moments. If he kept his hunger, senses and teeth in check, then it would be as if nothing had happened. Right? Of course he’d have to try not to bleed on anyone as well, something that was more of a main worry of John’s than anything else considering his recurring and lengthening dream, or, more correctly, nightmare. It spoke volumes for his subconscious reservations. John shook the thoughts aside before they could grow and overwhelm him, and changed for bed.  

Sherlock was still in the position he had left him when he returned, and John decided to carefully tuck himself next to him rather than behind, in case there were nightmares and he wasn’t woken in time. Half an hour later, he was sound asleep, lulled by Sherlock’s breath and steady heartbeat.


	9. Chapter 9

_Arms encircled him from behind, one of the hands resting over his heart, and the other at his hip. He felt lips caress his neck, and warm breath tickled his skin as a familiar nose buried itself in his cheek._  
_“Come away, John,” Sherlock whispered to him, his hands gripping tight as he felt his body tipping forwards again, like it always did, but the arms were holding him up this time. “Come away.”_  
_“I can’t,” he replied, leaning his head into Sherlock’s, “It’s a part of me now.”_  
_Something wet and warm dribbled from his mouth, and the ground sunk beneath him, bringing him down, and dragging Sherlock with him._  
_“Sherlock,” he gasped, “You have to let go.”_  
_“I’m not going anywhere,” he replied, and the arms only wrapped tighter around him, even as the blood dribbled and dripped around them, “You are John Watson. You will always be John Watson.”_  
_He closed his eyes as the first drop of blood touched his fingers, climbing over his skin and up his arm. “John Watson,” he said to himself, “I am John Watson,” the blood had reached his shoulder now, “I am John Watson,” his neck, “I am John Watson…”_  
_Something covered his mouth – a hand – and the blood stopped, suddenly rolling off him, but leaving his body stained red. He blinked open his eyes, and he was sat at the kitchen table. Sherlock was clutching at him from behind still, and the hand moved to bury itself in his hair.  
_ _“You’re safe here.”_

* * *

Faint sunlight peeped past John’s eyelids as his eyes fluttered, waking him gently and welcoming him back into consciousness. He sighed, feeling strangely content and safe, and allowed time to gather himself. He was lying comfortably on his back and so the first thing he saw was the ceiling, and he let his focus throb in and out lazily while he become more aware of his surroundings.

Normally he’d have woken up with a start, immediately antsy and automatically alert, even if still a little groggy from sleep, but this time it was different. This time it was gradual and slow and soothing, and so he basked in the moment, pondering fleetingly when he had felt so relaxed.

A warm arm was draped over his torso, a foot brushed the side of his leg, and as he realised whom they clearly belonged to and turned his head on the pillow to look, he came face to face with a languid looking Sherlock. His eyes were open and he was gazing at John fuzzily, his irises a bright, colourful ring around dilated pupils. Sherlock blinked sluggishly and then shifted his head position, touching John’s brow with messy curls as he stretched and let a sleepy smile tug at his mouth.

“Morning,” he rumbled, voice husky with sleep.

John smiled lightly, and leaned into the touch, “Morning. How do you feel?”

“Warm,” Sherlock replied, gesturing with the arm still on John’s chest, “lethargic.” He slurred the word, still half asleep, and frowned in annoyance, running his fingers down John’s side distractedly.

He chuckled, and grabbed a hold of those moving fingers before he started to squirm from being tickled, “Hungry?” he asked, hopeful and attentive.

“…How long have I been asleep?” Sherlock replied after he’d inspected John with lidding eyes, reaching with his other hand, which was tucked up between them, to tug on John’s pyjamas pointedly. He’d noticed that John had not been wearing pyjamas when they’d first gotten in bed together, and so began to become more interested, looking around the room blearily with a developing frown.

“Just over a day,” John told him, rubbing at the back of Sherlock’s hand, hoping to sooth and distract.

Groaning, Sherlock flailed his head dramatically against the pillow, forever the drama queen, and then shot John a soft, feeble attempt at a glare. It vanished quickly as he looked John over again, paying a lot of attention to John’s head for a long moment. John assumed it was in idle remembrance of the nightmares he’d suffered through beforehand and so turned his head, giving another smile, allowing the man to then tugged him a few inches closer. Sherlock tipped and slipped his head nearer to John’s so their foreheads brushed, the strands of their hair mixing, and then he exhaled deeply and quietly, his heart thudding a little louder, a little faster, as he extended the hand John wasn’t touching to trail his fingertips along John’s jaw.

John frowned a little, confused at the touch, but kept the light smile on his face, and hummed low in contentment. Sherlock’s eyes closed for a brief second at the sound and John moved his spare hand so that it rested against his shoulder, and continued to stroke the back of his other one. The amount of affection he felt for the man fizzed outwards from his chest and tingled along his spine, growing ever stronger in drowning, dazzling waves.

After what felt like several minutes but in actuality was probably no more than a mere, few seconds, Sherlock rubbed gently at John’s chin and lower lip with his fingers before he inhaled, paused, sniffed, and then shifted up on his elbow to lean over and stick his nose into John’s hair, “Why can I--?” he began, his eyes widening and then focusing sharply as he sat up. “ _Lestrade_ was here?” Sherlock looked over at his folded clothes and then scowled at John in the next second.

He winced, feeling the odd, affectionate moment sizzle and die, “He sort of… invited himself over yesterday afternoon.”

Rubbing at his face with two hands, Sherlock pushed back his messy curls and growled in frustration, “ _Brilliant_.”

John pushed himself up so that he was sitting against the headboard and folded his hands into his lap with a loose shrug, “It was bound to happen eventually.”

“Yes. I knew something would happen at some point but preferably when I’m _awake_ , so I can process and deal with it!” Sherlock complained, glancing at John with a suspicious narrowing of his eyes. “What did he want?”

“To have a drink and to see how we were doing,” he frowned. “He was worried because I wasn’t sounding like myself in my texts.”

Sherlock’s expression changed rapidly from wariness to confusion to sheepish in less than a second, “Oh…” he muttered, glaring off to the side with a flush.

John chuckled a little at that, and pulled himself out from under the covers, “He’s also told me to tell you that he has a load of Cold Case files you can look at.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock made a sound of disgust, “He always brings those up,” he said, looking back at John and fiddling with the bed sheets. “You drank alcohol then? Was is it…good?”

John’s brow rose, “I could taste it, if that’s what you mean?”

“Did it do anything? – How much was the intake?” Sherlock asked.

“I only had one bottle,” he frowned. “Nothing happened.”

Sherlock was silent a few moments and then glanced down to his hands, still twiddling with the covers, “Good. That’s good. I suppose…”

“Do… do you need to test it?” John asked, lowering his hands over Sherlock’s. “To check my tolerance, how it affects my control?--”

“When are you going back to work?” Sherlock asked him, virtually talking over John. His hands twitched and ceased all motion and then arched idly up under John’s with a sort of instinctive movement, wanting more of them to touch.

“I don’t know yet,” he replied, frowning a little in concern, “Lestrade’s the only one who knows I’m ‘back’, but I suppose it will probably have to be in the next few days.”

The muscle in Sherlock’s jaw jumped, “Hm. Yes. – Everything is…under control then?” he asked nodding seconds later as if he already knew the answer to the question. “Maybe a few more practices but, other than that, you’re not like you were.”

John smiled at him in sudden understanding, squeezing at his hands, “I’m scared too.”

“I’m _not_ —!” Sherlock snapped his mouth closed, cutting himself off, and pursed his lips. “Just don’t be an idiot. – Things are still not officially fixed. I’d prefer that you don’t go back, at all, but I know that’s unrealistic and illogical, someone’s going to get suspicious. _Especially_ now. Someone a lot more dangerous than Lestrade. Yet you are not out of the woods yet, you still need to deal with your new additions and I still need to keep an eye on…everything.”

John just nodded in reply, and rubbed at Sherlock’s arm. After a few moments, he rose from the bed, keeping a hold of Sherlock’s hands, and nodded towards the door, “Come on, let’s get some breakfast.”

Sherlock sighed and slipped to his feet after him, straightening to stand close, his gaze dropping to their hands with a flutter of his heart that infiltrated John’s ears, and a rush of heat and colour up his already rosy face, “You didn’t have a nightmare,” he said lowly, looking through his fringe at him with a slight tilt of his head.

John frowned at the comment as he led them through to the kitchen, “Not exactly. It was the same dream, but it ended differently.” He licked his lips in thought. “I get a little bit more at the end every so often. This bit just happened to be good.”

“Oh?” Sherlock pried, trying to act nonchalant.

He set the detective down in a seat and moved to make a start on some tea and toast, “So, it was the same as last time; you’re holding me, keeping me from falling in, but the blood ends up wrapping around me anyway, climbing up my hands, my arms, my neck… but then you cover my mouth, and it all just falls away, and I’m back here in the kitchen.” He looked over at Sherlock with a smile as he thought over the dream again. “You told me I was safe here, and I was.”

Sherlock blinked and John could hear his heart begin to thunder, something that made Sherlock automatically blush harder and fist his hands in embarrassment at that fact, “Ah. Yes. That is quite…nice. Nicer than it has been, at any rate. – Let’s hope it stays that way.”

John ducked his head, his own cheeks flaring and his own heartbeat quickening, as he turned back to the tea, “It’s not the building that makes me feel safe,” he mumbled quietly, pouring a drop of blood into his milky tea.

“…Just the kitchen then?” Sherlock joked, though his heart continued to rapidly thunder, no matter how much he seemingly tried to calm it.

John set Sherlock’s tea beside him, as always, then lingered a moment longer behind him, resting his hand on his shoulder with a surge of fondness, something that made his heart ache with the strength of it, and then walked back to finish the toast, letting his fingers loiter and brush against Sherlock’s back in a dragging skim as he went.

Sherlock’s heartbeat careered out of control at the touch, pounding so hard and so much that it was all John could hear. It filled his head, sent tingles up his back and throbbed through his teeth. Sherlock didn’t speak and when John happened to peek at him, he saw that Sherlock was staring into his tea, the pulse in his neck visibly fluttering but his face neutral. John swallowed, turning back to spreading butter and jam over the toast, twitching his nose to keep his fangs at bay. Once he finished, he walked behind Sherlock again and put his plate in front of him, brushing against his back a little, enjoying the flood of warmth the small caress gave him, before retrieving his own and sitting opposite him.

John wasn’t sure what was happening, not completely, he just knew that it had bought a tension between them that felt like it was tightening and tightening, and John wondered when it was that it would finally snap. There had always been something between them, an unspoken sort of bond, of friendship, but this was different, this was hot and shaky and sparked an ache of emotion in his chest so intense that it made him breathless.

“Me too,” Sherlock said an hour later, the toast and tea sitting untouched in front of him. He didn’t look at John but seemed to sense when John glanced at him because he gestured awkwardly with one hand. “What you said. Earlier. About the… _thing_ , you said. That. – Me too.”

Having been reading the paper, John reacted to Sherlock’s words instinctively, as if he wasn’t in full control of his body, and set it down, stood, walked around the table, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Sherlock’s scent and heat bombarded him in a flooding, consuming swell. The kiss was chaste and brief but it felt overwhelmingly powerful nonetheless, and it submerged John in a haze of swirling sensations as his mouth and the tip of his nose brushed the skin of Sherlock’s high cheekbone.

Sherlock’s blood surged in response, his heart skipping, and he blinked rapidly and repeatedly, frozen stiff and even holding his breath. John watched as Sherlock then swallowed and turned his head to look up at him, entire face tinged pink and pupils broadening with a widening throb. The sight was something that made John’s own heartbeat skip and he kept their gazes locked for a long few moments of time, feeling the tension between them only tighten tenser and tenser, and tenser. John’s eyes then flicked between both of Sherlock’s, looking, searching for permission to an abrupt powerful urge that tilted his head aside with growing purpose. Sherlock’s pupils widened further in reply and so John took a breath through his nose, inhaling everything Sherlock, and then leaned forward, and captured Sherlock’s lips with his.

Everything froze, including Sherlock who had remained in place with a rigid posture, before his mouth trembled against John’s and he returned the kiss meekly, eyes fluttering shut at the soft contact. John hummed quietly in automatic response and in the next moment the tension finally snapped. Sherlock’s chair clattered noisily to the floor as he surged to his feet, kissing John again with more pressure, more purpose, and a sudden hot breath through his nose, gripping at John’s arms with fiercely shaking hands.

John stumbled backward with a shaky gasp and a surge of bliss, falling into the kitchen counter with Sherlock pressing in against his front. He touched and cupped Sherlock’s shoulders and then his scorching throat, accepting a third kiss with a painful thumping of his heart, the rhythm of which almost seemed to synchronise with Sherlock’s own. Sherlock’s short, small, soft nape curls coiled around one of John’s fingertips and suddenly the moment was even more intimate.

Sherlock’s legs abruptly trembled and he fumbled when his knees decided to buckle as well, his eyes wide, face vulnerable and shocked as their lips disconnected. He twitched away, almost tripping over his own feet and the knocked over chair, and gestured toward the bathroom, unable to do anything but wheeze as he made toward it with a flaming face.

John watched after him for a few moments, face hot and flushed, and then he managed to remember how to breathe. He just… That just happened, right? He looked down at the chair on the floor, listened to Sherlock’s elevated heartbeat, his gasps, his gulps… Yeah… Yeah, it really did. He smiled, softly at first, dazedly, brushing at his lips with his fingers, and then brighter, a bubble of happiness growing in his chest until he giggled. Yes, _giggled_. He didn’t care. He’d just kissed Sherlock. And Sherlock had kissed him back. Sherlock Holmes, World’s only consulting detective, had kissed him back!

In a daze, he bent to pick up the chair and jerked his head around as he heard Sherlock hiss, falling into the radiator and then kneeing the sink when he turned on the taps to wash his face. His heart didn’t calm and was louder than the streaming water and occasional loud splashes, and it only made John’s smile bigger.

Sherlock took nearly an entire ten minutes to compose himself enough to walk back into the kitchen without incident, looking shy and astounded when John turned to look at him. He was still trembling very faintly, his face was still a little pink, and his heart didn’t seem to want to calm down anytime soon. Clearing his throat self-consciously, Sherlock lifted his gaze from where it had been fixed to the floor, to his feet, but that only made him blush again with a hitch of his breath.

Stepping around the table – a task made easier now that all the chairs were back in their original, upright positions – John walked up to Sherlock, and reached for his hands, “Is this… okay?” he asked, unsure but letting the words tumble from him instinctively anyway, mind plunged in a smog of emotion. “Did I go too fast?”

His heartbeat skipped in instant reply, “Noit’sfine,” Sherlock said all at once, slurring and fumbling over the words. He blinked and shook his head a little with a small cough. “Uh. It’s…fine. It’s fine.”

John smiled and squeezed his hands, “It’s alright if it’s not. You can control how this works. It can go as fast or as slow as you want.”

“Um.” Sherlock looked at him seeming lost and dazed but nodded, “I don’t…I’ve…not…I…uh…” he stammered, blinking roughly and swallowing.

John gave in to the brisk, gnawing compulsion and kissed him again, softly, a lingering touch that he slowly pulled away from with a wobbly exhale, looking into Sherlock’s eyes, “As fast, or as slow, as you want,” he repeated, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Inhaling shakily, Sherlock inclined his head an inch in answer, eyes lidding and glazed, “Yes.”

“Good,” John grinned at him, and pulled him back to the table, sitting him down, and turning on the kettle, pouring the cold tea down the drain. He watched Sherlock as Sherlock watched him, the man’s expression open while he dreamily observing every move John made with a far-off look.

Several minutes later, John deposited a fresh mug of tea, and a slice of warm toast in front of him, and couldn’t resist kissing his curly locks, “Drink up, love,” he said, rubbing his hand across Sherlock’s back, and then returned to his own seat, opening the newspaper again as he entwined their legs under the table.

Picking up the tea with a marginally unsteady hand, Sherlock took a sip, spluttering when he took too big a gulp. Grimacing in embarrassment, Sherlock mopped up his chin with the sleeve of his pyjama top and had a slower, smaller drink. He couldn’t seem to stop looking at John, much to John’s delight, and continued to take sips of the tea John had made throughout the electrified silence between them. John just continued to ‘read’ the paper, watching Sherlock watch him in his peripheral vision with a small, contented smile on his face.

After another few sips of tea Sherlock started on the toast, shoving it into his mouth clumsy, eyes still locked. He shifted his legs, hooking his feet over John’s ankles and wriggled his toes, getting bolder and more used to the situation as time went on, even as his heart kept up it’s relentless thumping. John sent him an amused look over the paper, moving one of his own feet on top of Sherlock’s and capturing it between the two of his, lifting a brow in challenge.

Sherlock shot him a wonky, genuine grin of amusement and poked and prodded at him with his other foot, “Anything in the papers?” he murmured casually as he jabbed his long toes up John’s leg, squirming his trapped foot.

“I have no idea,” he replied, setting it down on the table, grinning in enjoyment.

“Useless,” Sherlock said with a snort, reaching for it while kneading his toes against John’s shin.

John chuckled, “You’re just terribly distracting.”

Sherlock ripped the paper slightly at John’s words as he dragged it toward himself, and cleared his throat, “You started the ‘footsie’ battle.”

“Your legs got in the way,” he retorted, wrapping his feet over Sherlock’s captured one.

Sherlock shifted on his chair and covered his face with the ruffled newspaper to supposedly muffle a low, short chuckle, “Leave my long legs alone.”

“But I like your long legs,” John pouted playfully, feeling high with affection and moving one of his feet up said long legs, stopping a little below the knee, and then sliding back down again. Drunk and high and everything in-between.

Jerking back with a hitching snort, Sherlock tipped on his chair, almost falling off it, “This is… _ridiculous_ ,” he muttered and shot John a half-hearted glare. “ _You’re_ being ridiculous. One even might say a bit immature.” He lifted his eyebrows, trying to act snooty and condescending, but the image was weakened and almost comical because of the blotchy patches of colour on his cheeks. Sherlock then slipped his legs free with a nimble, unexpected motion, and grabbed both of John’s between them with a triumphant exclamation. A childlike glee on his face.

“What was that about being immature?” John grinned, wiggling his legs, but not really trying to get out of Sherlock’s grasp.

Sherlock smirked and adjusted his hold, trying to tickle the back of John’s knees with his toes. It was silly and exceptionally juvenile, but John hadn’t felt so happy, vivacious, and lively in a _very_ long time. There were moments before, of course, where Sherlock and he would crack jokes with each other, enjoying the warmth of friendship between them and the already long list of moments they’d shared, but this time it was both that and something entirely different. In the end, they continued to play footsie until John fell off his chair, having tipped it over so much that it just collapsed, and he ended up laughing heartily on the floor.

Sherlock snorted and looked down at him, “All right there?” he asked, leaning on the table with his chin coming to rest on one upturned hand. “Does this mean I win? Do people normally win this mindless thing?”

“Sure,” John chuckled, wiping a hand over his face and resting it on his forehead as he stared up at the ceiling, “I think this classes as winning at footsie.”

“What do I win?”

John looked over at him with a grin, still not getting up from the floor. “What do you want?” John watched as the younger man flushed, subconsciously touching the cheek John had kissed as he shrugged one shoulder and got up, pretending to not want anything while he extended a hand to John to help him up. He still seemed a bit dazed and timid with it all, though his eyes were bright, his face was still reddened, and his heartbeat still beat hard with affection. It was flattering and humbling.

John took the hand gratefully, pulled himself up into Sherlock’s personal space, and kissed his cheek again, “How’s that?” The skin of Sherlock’s cheek was blazing hot under John’s lips and Sherlock glanced at him with a quiver of his eyelids, clearly savouring the moment. Pleased with his prize, but not fully satisfied. He smiled at John and shifted his stance with a brief nod, still holding John’s hand, seeming unwilling to let it go.

John tilted his head in askance, even though he knew full well what Sherlock wanted, and lifted his chin slightly so Sherlock would have better access. In adulated amusement, John regarded him as he swallowed and looked away, feigning being ignorant and distracted to what John was offering, but the colour on his face that leaked slowly down his throat, gave him away. With increasing reticence, he inelegantly stroked John’s knuckles, and lifted his other hand to a place on John’s shoulder, then his nape. When he finally bent down to connect their lips, he did so tentatively, nosing at John’s cheek seconds before. The kiss was pure and soft and prolonged, and John hummed into it, smiling calmly as he brought his free hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek, the warmth that had been simmering in his chest growing to a burning fire for those wonderful seconds.

Trailing a few shaking, meek kisses from John’s mouth to his ear, Sherlock closed in for an embrace with a quaking breath and dropped his head to John’s shoulder. However, as they pressed together comfortingly, John heard the soft buzzing of one of their phones from the desk where he’d set them to charge. Sherlock heard it too, judging from the brief shift of his head, but he didn’t move away. Not that John wanted him to exactly.

He smirked, rubbing at Sherlock’s back a little, “I should probably get that.”

“It’s just Sarah,” Sherlock mumbled. “She texts you a lot. She’s annoying. And persistent.”

“Then I should _definitely_ get that,” John replied, pulling back marginally, “She is my boss, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed and stepped away in an impulsive mood, “Fine,” he muttered, walking back to his seat.

John watched him in amusement, and then made his way over to his phone. It was indeed Sarah, as Sherlock had said (not that he’d doubted him), and he sighed as he opened the text.

**Hey, John! How are you holding up? How’s your sister? I know you must be busy, but please give me a call. As much as I want to, I can’t keep covering for you, I’m afraid. I’ll need to know when you can return. Sarah xx**

He winced slightly at how things must be for her, having to help him keep his job while risking her own no doubt. He quickly pressed the call button and raised the phone to his ear to listen for the dial tone.

She picked up quite swiftly, “That was _quick_ ,” she laughed, “did I catch you at a good time?”

“Yeah,” he replied with a forced smile, “I uh, actually got back from my sister’s two days ago. I had to deal with Sherlock though,” he sent the man an apologetic look, “so things were still busy.”

Sherlock sent him a mock-offended expression in response as Sarah laughed down the phone again, “ _Ah_. Yes. I should have known – Well, that’s good then! I don’t need to worry about you being absent any longer. _Brilliant_! Some of your patients have been a tad irritable since your absence. You’re very well liked and not many of them were overly happy to see another doctor.”

John’s smile softened into something more real at the thought of his patients, “I wasn’t overly happy that I had to neglect them.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to start again soon then? Tomorrow? This afternoon?”

“As soon as you can, yes – Though perhaps not today. I have you covered for today,” Sarah told him. John heard her looking through what sounded like her diary and then clicking and typing on a computer. “Are you happy to start tomorrow?”

John covered the mouthpiece and turned to Sherlock, “Do you think I’ll be okay to go to work tomorrow?”

Sherlock seemed to instantly dislike the idea but he sighed and looked away, having been watching John since sitting down, “I’d prefer you didn’t go,” he said, “but you seem to have almost full control over everything, and you _want_ to go back. You _want_ to continue to work there. You _want_ to help the idiot masses. – As you said earlier, it was bound to happen eventually.”

He frowned at his tone, but returned to the phone call, determined to sort things out once it was over, “Yeah, that should be fine Sarah.”

“Fantastic! – Thanks John,” Sarah said. “I best be off now then, but I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” John agreed, waiting for her to hang up before ending the call. He stared down at the phone for a few seconds after that, and then looked up the Sherlock with a somewhat sad expression. “We can’t live in fear, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned his head aside, hiding his face and therefore his expression, and got up to start bustling around the kitchen, “You’ll have to pretend you still have the wound on your neck,” he uttered.

He watched the detective for a minute as he tried to busy himself, and then sighed, coming to stand up behind him and wrap his arms about Sherlock’s waist, “ _Stop_ ,” he said, burying his face in the back of Sherlock’s shoulder.

Relaxing into John, Sherlock took a deep, silent breath, “I should test to see if you’ll catch other illnesses and what they do,” he said after a minute of nothing, voice vibrating against John. “I never thought to do that before. Stupid really…” John hummed – neither in agreement or disagreement – and nuzzled closer, inhaling a deep breath of Sherlock. “And we have to test how good you are at controlling those teeth of yours when there’s human blood around,” Sherlock went on, before lifting one hand to touch John’s arms warmly. He stroked his fingers along John’s forearm and up his bicep, then moved to grip John’s elbow.

John’s finger’s twitched at the contact, rubbing against Sherlock’s side a little in appreciation as he nodded, “Probably a good idea considering I’ll be working in a clinic.”

Sherlock made a sound between a gentle laugh and a hum, and John didn’t have to see his face to know he’d rolled his eyes, “I’ll prick my finger,” he said, leaning into John and turning his head aside to peek at him, reaching with his free hand to rummage around.

“We still need to get a new bread knife,” John muttered into his shoulder, though peering up into those changeable eyes now.

“No we don’t. Just stick a new handle on the one we have and it’s fine,” Sherlock scoffed, his cheeks flushing anew as he retained their eye contact.

John scowled at him, but conceded the point with a shrug and a smile, “You can do that then.”

Getting his scalpel, Sherlock pricked his finger with it, barely flinching, and stroked John’s arms with his other hand as the finger beaded with fresh blood, filling John’s senses in a burst of thick, cloying scent. Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eyes as the bubble of blood expanded and then broke apart to dribble down the length of his finger.

John watched it carefully, inhaling deeply, and then exhaling, rubbing at his lip furiously to keep the fangs at bay. After almost half minute, it worked, and he relaxed, “That took too long.”

“Mm,” Sherlock watched the blood stain his finger a moment more and then stuck it in his mouth. The small wound continued to bleed for a bit, but Sherlock pressed on it and hunted around for a plaster, keeping John pressed close to him. “I’ll do it intermittently throughout the day. Sometimes when you least expect it.”

“Wonderful,” he replied sarcastically, already looking forward to it, and revelling in the continued contact between them.

Sherlock stroked at John’s arms again, “And I still want that sample later. Not now though,” he said.

John hummed, “The plasters are in the bathroom cabinet,” he said after Sherlock had decided that they might be hiding in the bread bin.

“Right. Course. I knew that,” Sherlock muttered, walking them both into the bathroom, keeping John squashed into his back. John couldn’t help but giggle the entire way, their close proximity forcing them to go slowly else they trip over each other’s feet. It was almost like a Can-can line, except much closer, and more intimate.

“Shut up,” Sherlock said with a puff of laughter that shook John against his shoulder. He opened the cabinet once they had finally arrived and tended to his finger, looking back at John with a grin.

“We’re going to need a lot of plasters by the end of the day,” John sighed, and then scowled at Sherlock. “I really hate that you’re doing this. Hurting yourself for me.”

“It’s just a small prick, John,” Sherlock told him with a look skyward, turning away, “it’s worth it anyway.”

He smiled up at him, turned Sherlock’s head aside by his chin and then kissed him on the tip of his nose, “So you _are_ a romantic after all.”

“…You take that back,” he playfully whispered once he’d blushed happily from the contact, his mouth quirking.

“Make me.”

“I am _not_ romantic,” Sherlock told him and after shutting the cabinet door, he shuffled them back out of the bathroom and into the living room again.

“I am _thoroughly_ convinced,” John smirked.

“I’m _really_ not,” Sherlock frowned before he checked and unplugged his phone, turned on the TV, and moved to the sofa with John.

“Mm-hm,” he replied, settling Sherlock on his lap before the man could stop him and stroking a hand through his hair.

Sherlock made a low sound of exasperation and rearranged himself with a wriggle, moving to sit close beside John instead of on him, his legs draped and stretching over John’s thighs. John regarded him in amusement as Sherlock then leaned into him, pushing up close and almost getting back onto John’s lap again with how close he ended up getting. Sherlock glanced fleetingly at the TV but moved his attention to his phone a second later, tapping and searching and fiddling with it, while John ran his fingers through his curls, gently untangling a few knots. They spent hours like that, both of them content and relaxed in each other’s arms, paying attention to their own distractions, but always each other as well.

At some point Sherlock had fallen into a light doze and so snorted back awake when John moved him aside, thinking about food and reaching for his own phone, feeling the need for dumplings, “I wasn’t asleep,” Sherlock denied instantly.

“Of course you weren’t,” John agreed sagely, and scrolled through his contacts for the number, “Chinese?”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, stretching and picking up his phone from where it had dropped between the sofa cushions. He got to his feet and padded into the kitchen, hiding a yawn with his back turned, or at least trying to. John could hear it perfectly.

Smiling after him, John lifted the phone to his ear and waited for the Take Away to answer, “Hello? Yes, this is John Watson. I’d like to order the usual for 221B Baker Street--”

The smell of blood was explosive and sudden, appearing without warning and knocking John in the face. Sherlock glanced over at him from where he stood in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water, the plaster pulled slightly away from his finger, and the scalpel on the counter. The blood pooled and dripped sideways, soaking into the absorbent patch in the plaster and drawing John’s eyes.

The fangs almost fell this time, but he pushed firmly on the muscles below his nose as he listened to how much everything would be and how long it would take to cook, “Brilliant,” he said through gritted teeth, wiggling his nose, “I’ll… have the money ready for when it gets here. Goodbye.” He hung up and glared at Sherlock, finally pulling his hand away as the feeling died. “You _utter bastard_.”

Replacing the plaster, Sherlock cleaned the scalpel with antiseptic, “I told you I might do it when you least expected it – You need to be ready. Someone may very well walk into your office with a head wound. Someone in another room may suddenly need a blood test. Perhaps a work colleague gets a nosebleed— _All_ these things need to be considered. And not just for work, but for the outside as well. When you walk down the street. Get in a taxi. Talk to someone.” He took another few gulps of water. “We’ve been very lucky so far. The path to and from Regent’s Park has been more or less safe and free of blood, with an abundance of other sights, sounds, and smells to distract or help, and only small instances where you lost control.”

John nodded mournfully, “I’m able to keep them in at least. I could feign an itchy nose until I can control it better.”

“Hm.” Sherlock finished his drink and put the glass in the sink, wandering back to the sofa and sitting down. “By the end of today, you would have gotten sick of the smell of it. – Animal blood barely affects you now.”

“I think it’s the freshness of it as well,” he explained with a frown, turning the TV off as he searched for his wallet. “It loses something when it gets frozen, or if you leave it for too long.” He found and picked up his wallet from the table and turned back to Sherlock. “Human blood just… it’s _better_.”

“I wonder if you’d feel differently over infected blood,” Sherlock murmured thoughtfully, squinting at John without actually looking at him, his mind racing. His eyes focused a second later, however, and he gave John a small smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t have you do that. Too risky. But it _is_ interesting – I’ve been wondering about the different tastes of fresh human blood for a while now. Animal blood, you said, has a certain…tang and flavour to it, which seems closely connected with the animal it came from. So is it the same with humans? Does Mrs Hudson’s blood taste differently to mine, for instance? What with her…herbal soothers and all.” His smile twitched. “And if I smoked…would you taste it? Does a person’s lifestyle affect flavour?”

“You’re _not_ smoking,” John told him with a pointed look, “And I really wouldn’t know. I haven’t had any other blood than yours since I started needing it, and it was all really just different levels of ‘good’ or ‘bad’ tasting blood at that point.” He frowned. “This is one of the weirdest conversations I’ve _ever_ had.”

“With me? No it isn’t,” Sherlock said, looking pleased, extending out his long legs as he slumped down on the sofa. “Have you thought about it? Having a taste of someone else’s blood? - I wonder what it’s like. Being bitten by you now you have those sharp canines…”

One of John’s eyebrows rose in incredulity, “Have you been fantasising about this? Like some kind of teenage girl?”

“I wasn’t aware that teenage girls fantasied about getting bitten?” Sherlock frowned. “Why would they do that?”

“That’s not a denial.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted, looking irritated as he rotated one hand lazily in explanation, “Your teeth are _obviously_ designed for aiding you in feeding. You grew them for a reason. Is it really so wrong, therefore, for me to contemplate how they work and how it feels when they do? – I did not ‘fantasise’ about anything. I merely pondered. Speculated. And vaguely tried to visualise. Nothing more.”

John hummed at the answer, and then went to join Sherlock on the sofa, leaning into him a bit as he fiddled with his wallet, “I suppose a person’s diet would change what their blood tasted like. There is a reason why you’re not supposed to eat or drink for several hours before a blood test after all.”

“I’m highly surprised you like mine then. Considering my diet,” Sherlock said, one of his hands automatically touching and pressing into the fabric of John’s pyjama bottoms.

He jerked at the contact, but covered Sherlock’s hand to keep it still as he settled back again, “ _What_ diet?” he smirked.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Sherlock laughed, leaning his head back against the top of the sofa to look at John better.

John shrugged, “Maybe that’s why I like it then. It’s more… ‘pure’.”

Sherlock arched his eyebrow and leisurely entwined their fingers, as if he was trying to be sneaky about it and savour it at the same time, “You know that I now may possibly stuff my face and then have you taste my blood, right?”

“Oh, heaven forbid,” John grinned, watching Sherlock’s progress with intent as he leaned his head back on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Maybe I’ll have a crafty fag too,” Sherlock murmured with a gleam in his eyes.

John burst out laughing, “What are you implying?”

Sherlock beamed at him cheekily, “Nothing.”

“Still not gay, Sherlock,” he chuckled lightly, but then he stiffened, and frowned, looking down at their intertwined hands. All of a sudden everything they had done, everything that had happened, hit him all at once. It was as if he hadn’t been thinking the entire time and running on instinct alone. It had been so right, so natural, that he hadn’t considered that this was something he’d never done before, that he was basically in a new relationship with Sherlock. A new romantic relationship. Is that what it was now? There had always been something more between them, since the start. They were friends, but there was something different about their friendship that John couldn’t put a finger on. He trusted Sherlock like no other person. But this? This was something he’d denied. Something he’d never wanted, never even had, before.

Sherlock’s smile faltered and then slipped off his face as he flitted his eyes over John’s expression, lifting his head, “What are you doing?” he asked quietly.

John clutched at his hand, and closed his eyes with a breath, “Just… having a bit of an identity crisis.”

“Now?” Sherlock frowned, sitting up straighter. “ _Really_? _Now_?”

“Apparently,” he sighed. “Is there an appropriate time for this sort of thing?” He looked up at Sherlock’s face and felt his entire chest clench.

Sherlock blinked and then threw up his free hand, “Well. _Yes_! When you…decided to…to _kiss_ me? Th-that would have been appropriate—Or before then. Or…perhaps…” He trailed off and then let out a puff of breath, scrubbing the hand through his hair. He blushed again with a rapid thundering of his heart, and looked away with a wince, trying to work his captured hand free.

John let go, but quickly shifted so that he was sitting on top of Sherlock’s lap, touching at his chin to see if he could gain his attention again, to look into his eyes, “I don’t regret kissing you. I _won’t_ , and I _never_ will. It’s just…” He looked around, as though he’d be able to find the right words in the wallpaper. “I _thought_ I was straight. I thought I would only ever want to be with women. But you…” He swallowed. “I… I care about you. More than I have anyone else, man or woman. I _want_ to be with you, in every sense. I’m just… stumbling over the logistics a bit.”

“Right,” Sherlock said, though he still seemed a bit off and withdrawn. He tried to avoid eye contact and lean back, but ended up giving in and focusing on John entirely. Keeping their gazes locked despite the twisting grimace of his mouth. “How long will this last for? This crisis of yours?” he asked in a mumble. “Should I have one? – Seeing as I told you I wasn’t interested before, I should be having one…I don’t _do_ this. I’ve not wanted anything like this for a…long time.”

“You seem to have a much more stable, accepting mind than I do,” John smiled, “But if you do, then I’ll wait. I uh… it’s more the labels and… the fact that I’ve not been with a man before… that I’m struggling with.” He frowned a bit, eyes losing focus as he remembered how his father reacted when Harry had come out to him. “And maybe a bit of fear.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, “I never much cared for labels,” he said, looking John over again and reaching out to awkwardly touch his shoulder. He looked like he would say more, as if he desperately wanted to, but he chose not to and watched John carefully.

John blinked back to the present, and then smiled, “That’s why you’ll handle this better than I am. Why you _have_ handled this better.” He swallowed and stood, dropping his wallet on the sofa as he headed backward towards the door. “Ex-… Excuse me for just a minute, would you?” he said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’ve just got to… yeah… I’ll be back.”

He left before Sherlock could say anything, walking briskly to the bathroom and closing the door behind him, though not locking it. Walking over to the sink, John looked at himself in the mirror and rubbed a hand over his mouth. What was wrong with him? This was a _good_ thing! Why was he suddenly so afraid now that he’d finally found something so beautiful?

The image of his father flashed in his mind, his red face as he shouted at Harry, as she cried and sobbed when he disowned her. When he hit her. John had stopped him before he was able to do anything else, but he saw the rage in his eyes, the hatred, the _disgust_.

Both John and his sister had moved out as soon as they could after that, but it had affected them, deep down. Harriet had gone to the bottle – just a small glass at first, but everything escalated after a while – and John had been terrified to even _think_ those kinds of thoughts about men, as though their father would somehow know. But then Sherlock came into his life, and during this past week they’d been getting closer and closer and…

The sound of their delivered food at the door tore through John’s thoughts, and he listened as Sherlock got up and headed for it, taking the stairs steadily and bumping into Mrs Hudson on the way. Mrs Hudson lectured him softly, fondly, about not eating and not sleeping properly, and then changed the subject to ask after John as the door was opened. Sherlock sighed, paid for their meal, shut the door again and told Mrs Hudson everything was fine, though his tone was flat and layered in annoyance.

Mrs Hudson huffed, told him that she had a pie waiting for him, for them both, and then went back into her living room once Sherlock ignored her and continued up the stairs. With a quick wash of his face, and a shuddering breath, John looked himself in the eye, and made his way back into the living room again.

Sherlock was sorting through the food in the kitchen, putting John’s order off to the side for him, “Here,” he mumbled, tossing John’s wallet over to him.

John caught it and put it down on the table with a sigh before moving to stand behind Sherlock, and wrapped his arms around his waist, resting his forehead against his back, “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock replied tenderly, slumping his shoulders for a few seconds. “We can stop. It’s fine. Might be easier actually. Less distracting. – I shouldn’t think about you so much.”

“I don’t want to stop,” John replied, stiffening, hands tightening on Sherlock’s shirt, “I don’t think I could switch _this_ off. Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to, but… if you do…?”

Sherlock’s heart seemed to shudder and he flinched a little, his head shaking jerkily in the negative, “Mrs Hudson has made a pie,” he said at random with a self-conscious swallow. “Apple. We should have some after. She makes good pies.”

John released a quivering, relieved breath, and nodded, stepping around Sherlock but keeping an arm wrapped around his waist, “She makes the _best_ pies,” he corrected with a small grin, reaching for his food and opening the lid.

Leaving the bag the food had come in, Sherlock stacked his boxed meal and nudged John with his hip, “Sofa,” he told him. Following suit, John temporarily left Sherlock’s side to fetch some forks and made his way to the sofa, sliding down next to the already seated man and offering him the cutlery.

“Are you _ever_ going to try the chopsticks?” Sherlock asked him, waving said utensils at John’s face as he settled further and crossed his ankles, pressed up from thigh to shoulder with John. He took a fork anyway, despite what he had said, and gave John a slight smile.

“I will have you know that I used to be _very good_ at using chopsticks,” John told him, “I just haven’t picked them up since I got back is all.”

Sherlock watched him a moment, looking virtually besotted, and then he gave a pair of chopsticks over to him, “Go on then.”

He looked down at the red paper wrapper being offered to him, then up at Sherlock’s expectant, hopeful look, and took them with a roll of his eyes, “Don’t blame me if I end up poking your eye out,” he said, pulling the sticks out and snapping them apart.

With a hum, Sherlock adjusted his position, turning to watch John with exaggerated interest, his eyebrows lifted and his expression somewhat entertained already, “I won’t, and I promise not to laugh at you when you eventually make a mess of yourself either.”

“So gracious,” John smirked, positioning the sticks in his left hand in the way he could just about remember. He tested his ability a few times, tapping the lower stick with the one above, and then attempted to pick up some of his noodles. Key word being ‘attempted’.

Sherlock bit down and then chewed on his bottom lip, stifling a grin and a laugh, even as his shoulders shook, “You are _terrible_ ,” he told him bluntly after several moments of watching and reached over, taking hold of his hand. “Here. Like this. Look, it’s not difficult.” He helped John pick up a wad of noodles and then fed himself with a snort.

John narrowed his eyes and repositioned the chopsticks in his fingers, “Eat your own food. Stop always stealing mine— Ah-ha!” he proclaimed, depositing a mess of noodles into his mouth and raising his hands in triumph.

Clapping with a playful, yet condescending look, Sherlock shuffled down again and opened his own chopsticks, twirling them between his fingers just to show off, “Turn the TV back on.”

John just raised a brow at him, picking up the remote from the table to find something decent, “You sure you didn’t learn the drums too?”

Sherlock shot him a grin and stuffed his mouth with a precise, dramatic flourish, lounging on the sofa, “Are you having blood to drink?” he asked with his cheeks full. “Because I want tea.”

“You have legs,” John said through his own mouthful, “and hands. Use them.”

“Hands are full,” Sherlock announced and elbowed John. “You’re always making me tea. Why stop now? Make me tea.”

“Bossy,” he muttered, but put another tangle of noodles in his mouth and made his way to the kitchen, setting up the two mugs for their respective drinks.

Sherlock looked smug when John glanced back at him, “Thank you,” he told him through another slurp of food.

“ _Unbelievable_ ,” John sighed, but smiled back all the same, waiting for the kettle and the microwave to finish. Once they were both done, and he’d thrown the used tea bag away, he returned to his seat and placed Sherlock’s mug in his waiting hand. “Your tea, m’lord.”

Sherlock grinned at him, taking a quick sip, “I found Jeremy Kyle,” he told John, having had skipped through the channels while John had made the tea. He nodded at the screen and then motioned to it with his mug. “She’s cheating on him with his brother.”

John winced and sipped at his beverage, “Ouch, bad form.”

“What he _doesn’t_ know is she’s also been sleeping with his other, younger, brother,” Sherlock said and lifted his eyebrows at John. “She has a child with one of them, but doesn’t know which – Watch it be the brother who isn’t present.” He smirked.

John waited patiently for the DNA test verdict, munching away at his food, and chuckled when Sherlock’s observations were proved correct, “ _Jesus_. I can’t believe she’d do that.”

Sherlock hummed and pulled his legs up on the sofa to curl more securely against John’s side, “She’s extremely callous,” he said in agreement, scoffing when she began to cry. “And here come the water works. Or lack thereof. – A lot of women that come on this show, and others like it, do this pretend crying thing. The type of crying where it’s basically them crunching up their face without any actual tears being shed— _Look_! She’s faking it! Why do that? _Why_? And she knows perfectly well who the father is!”

“She wants her fifteen minutes of fame,” John explained, finishing his food and leaning back into the sofa and Sherlock, mug in hand.

Sherlock finished eating a bit later than John, due to the fact of him stopping at almost every moment of the show to shout at the screen in frustration, and he dropped his head close to John’s once he was done, reaching to flick through the channels with one hand, while his other sneakily moved to John’s knee, balancing his mug there. It wasn’t long until Sherlock got bored and suddenly interested in the pie Mrs Hudson had offered, and rushed down to collect it, barely giving Mrs Hudson chance to open her door before he was inside, heading for her kitchen.

John listened for a few moments, before setting down his mug with a roll of his eyes, and skipping down the stairs to wait by Mrs Hudson’s door in order to do damage control.

“You can’t eat it _all_ today, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson was saying, fussily following Sherlock around and then snatching the pie from his hands with a stern look in his direction. “Let me cut it up for you. You and John can have a slice with cream.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, “I very much _can_ eat it all today. If I wanted.”

Mrs Hudson clicked her tongue in provocation, “You’ll get tummy ache.”

“Stomach ache,” Sherlock corrected. “Do stop being annoying.”

“ _Rude_ , Sherlock,” John said from the door, arms folded across his chest, “I’m sorry Mrs Hudson, it seems he’s decided to eat everything today.”

“Oh! Hello dear – Yes, he is being rather frisky,” she agreed.

“Frisky?” Sherlock repeated and flushed with a frown. “I am _not_ being frisky. How am I _frisky_?”

“It means excitable, dear—”

Sherlock groaned theatrically over the top of her and leaned around her shoulder to pick up the bowl of apple pie and cream, “Just give me the pie.”

“You’re not having the whole pie all at once,” John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There is such thing as ‘too much of a good thing’.”

“That’s just not true,” Sherlock told him, stumbling to a stop when Mrs Hudson grabbed his elbow and gave him a spoon. “I have my own spoons, Mrs Hudson!”

“Let me just give you a bit more cream. You like it creamy,” she said, completely ignoring him and turning back for the tub, pouring more into Sherlock’s bowl. “There we are!” John covered his mouth to stifle a laugh as he watched the scene unfold.

Sherlock shot him a glare and Mrs Hudson turned to hold out a bowl to John, “There you go, dear!”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek as he took the bowl from her, “I’m sure it will be delicious, as always.”

Sherlock led the way back up stairs, already shovelling a large spoonful into his mouth and turned to John, “Do you just kiss everyone on the cheek then?” he asked.

“Just the people I care about,” John replied, “Though not men, usually.” He gave Sherlock a teasing look.

Sitting back down, Sherlock grinned coyly and ducked his head, trying to hide it, “Good,” he mumbled.

“Oh, eat your pie,” John said, dropping down next to him, “Smug bastard.”

Throughout the rest of the day, they spent it near enough side by side. Sherlock would, as he said he would, prick his finger at random moments, filling the flat with the scent of blood. Sometimes John would deal with it quite well, half having known Sherlock would do it anyway, while other times he became overcome with it all, and inwardly writhed in ecstasy at the sight, the smell, the _want_.

At one stage, Sherlock strolled over to John when he’d come back from the loo, and held the poor, oozing finger out, “Taste it,” he said with interest.

John blinked down at the digit in surprise, “You… huh?”

“I _want_ you,” Sherlock told him slowly, moving closer, “to _taste_ it – We talked about it before. About the flavour changing depending on intake. I’m curious.”

“Oh, right,” he replied, looking between his face and the finger, before reaching out for his wrist. “Only a drop though.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched but he inclined his head, gazing at John, “For now,” he muttered under his breath.

John gave him a look, but focused his attention back on Sherlock’s finger again and brought it up to his mouth. He inhaled, taking in the delectable scent, opened his jaw and brought his tongue out to trace over the wound, wiping the blood that had collected into his mouth, and then closing his eyes as he tried to focus his attention on the flavours rather than the feeling.

It tasted the same, and yet different. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth to try and get a better idea of what he was tasting, and hummed in surprise as he opened his eyes, “Well, that _was_ different.”

“Yes?” Sherlock asked him with intrigue as he covered his finger again. “Can you describe _how_ it was different? Sweeter? Spicier? – And is it better than before? Or less ‘pure?’”

“It was… the same,” he explained with a frown. “Maybe not ‘pure’ any more, but full of other flavours. Like meat that’s been marinated.” He ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth again. “I could taste the cinnamon and the apple from the pie, and there was a hint of soy sauce and chicken from the Chinese, but it still tasted like… well… _you_ , I guess.”

Sherlock tilted his head with a look of interest and kept his eyes on John for a very long time, “I suppose you’ll be going to bed early tonight,” he said next, rocking very slightly on his feet. “In…your…bedroom?” He glared off to the side, cleared his throat, and gestured aimlessly. “No real reason to stay in mine any longer – Though you are welcome to it. As I may not always go in there and…and it might be easier, for _you_ , some…sometimes.”

John looked down at the floor, and then up again, “I’ve kind of gotten used to your bed.”

“Oh. Yes. Good,” Sherlock said, pressing his lips together before he continued cumbersomely, “my mattress is rather…comfortable.”

He chuckled a little at his stumbling, and rested his hand on Sherlock’s arm, “Yes, it is.” He smiled. “But I’m not headed to bed just yet.”

Sherlock nodded, “I know that,” he muttered, glancing at John’s hand and then reaching to touch it. He seemed to be relieved and very cheerfully relaxed, and he stroked at John’s fingers a little, entranced and fond. John looked down at them and splayed his fingers, inviting Sherlock’s closer.

Gently entwining their hands, Sherlock took a deep, breath and huffed a small laugh, “I’m not very good at this,” he admitted in a whisper.

“I don’t seem to be very good at it either,” he replied, looking up into Sherlock’s face. “We can learn together, if you’d like.”

“It’s almost the same,” Sherlock said, frowning. “Only…it isn’t.” He squeezed John’s fingers and then lowered his head shyly, dragging his thumb over John’s skin. “I think I might miss you. Tomorrow. As stupid as that is – Is that stupid? –It’s got to be. Forget I said anything. _Why_ did I even say anything? I don’t know what’s happening. I can’t _think_ properly!” He shot a very softened glower in John’s direction.

John just smiled in return and squeezed his hand, “If it’s any consolation, I’m going to miss you too.”

“Yes. It is,” Sherlock snorted and hesitatingly leaned to push their foreheads together. John swayed into the touch with a hum, rubbing his hand up and down Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock pulled away after lingering for longer than necessary and moved to gather up his laptop, checking his emails and his website for an hour, and then looked at John, “I’ve changed your email password back, by the way. And it wasn’t that I didn’t trust you. I do trust you. With my life. – You can just be a bit…” He rolled his wrist as he tried to think of a word or term that possibly wouldn’t offend John.

“Clumsy?” John filled in for him. “Impulsive? Bad at lying?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said without saying which one he agreed with. “Anyway, it’s back to how it was now.”

“So I can finally read these emails I’ve apparently been ignoring from Harry?” he replied and groaned. “ _Oh joy_.”

“You don’t have to. You can still ignore them,” Sherlock told him.

He sighed, “No, I do. It’s one of those obligatory family things.” He looked at Sherlock with a smirk. “ _My_ family, anyway.”

“Touché,” Sherlock retorted with a twist of his mouth. “I could spare you the trouble? – She’s split up with her girlfriend because of her drinking. That’s about the gist of it all.”

“You read her emails?” John asked, surprised, “I would have thought you’d have just deleted them or something.” He frowned. “She really needs to sort herself out. That’s the fifth one since Clara.”

“I was tempted to delete them,” Sherlock mumbled. “But no. I only read one or two. She merely repeated herself in her texts to you. That’s how I know – I deleted them though. The texts. They were taking up space and extremely bothersome.”

“Of course they were.” He rubbed at his face. “I should probably talk to her.”

“What will talking do?” Sherlock scoffed but then looked at John with wide eyes. “Don’t _actually_ go to see her! You can’t go see her when you’ve already feigned seeing her!”

“She only lives on the other side of town, Sherlock,” John retorted. “What _else_ am I supposed to do?”

“You can’t see her _twice_ ,” Sherlock told him.

“Why the hell not? I could be… checking on her to see if she’s doing okay.”

“So soon after getting back? No. It doesn’t make sense. And, well…I don’t want you to go. How about that? – I still need to keep an eye on things and to…take samples,” Sherlock said.

“Then come with me!” John smiled a little. “I’m sure your presence will make the visit _very_ quick.”

Sherlock cringed but also, oddly, seemed to debate it with himself for a while, “How long a timeframe would be required to see her? Or should I say, how long is compulsory?”

John looked at him as though he’d sprouted a second head, “Uh, half an hour?”

“And I suppose I’ll have to behave and be quiet? No deducing the sister?”

“… You’re really going to come?”

“I might,” Sherlock muttered, peeking over his brow. “If you…wanted me to.”

John contemplated it for a few moments, thinking about all the ways it could, and probably would, go wrong. Sherlock and Harriet would probably be at each other’s throats in seconds if given the chance. And yet… “I would,” he smiled, “I’d like that very much.” Because damn it all, he wanted the most important people in his life to have met at least once.

“Then I will,” Sherlock told him with a determined nod, going back to his laptop.

John smiled fondly at him, and rested his head against his shoulder, “Thank you.”

Sherlock turned to push his nose and mouth into John’s hair, “You have a few more comments on your blog too, you know. – It’s all drivel, of course.”

“Well, I can look at them tomorrow.” He stretched out on the sofa a little so that he was tucked up against Sherlock’s side and his feet were between him and the armrest. “Tonight is my last night before work. I’m going to be lazy.”

“What about dinner?” Sherlock asked, though his tone was teasing. “Though I suppose we could just have more apple pie.”

“We’re not having a desert for dinner.”

“Why not? We’re grown men. Not children. We could have _anything_ for dinner.”

“It’s _not_ happening, Sherlock. We could have sandwiches or something and _then_ some apple pie, but not pie on its own.”

“You can’t exactly prevent me from having the apple pie first,” Sherlock huffed.

“I can tell Mrs Hudson not to give you any until you’ve had a proper meal.”

“She can’t very well stop me either,” he laughed impishly.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to keep a close eye on you,” John said, turning his head slightly so he could give him a playful glare.

Sherlock arched his eyebrow, “Going to follow me to the loo, are you? Just in case I try and sneak away?” he asked.

“Don’t tempt me.”

Sherlock grinned at him and turned back to his laptop for a bit longer, typing quickly and skimming through websites that John only had a passing interest for. It wasn’t until it looked like Sherlock was hacking into the areas with CCTV that John became more curious. Sherlock was checking the cameras that surrounded their flat mainly, moving them if he somehow found them to be at the ‘wrong’ angle and using them to scan the streets just outside their windows. John wasn’t completely sure how he felt about the act and the meddling, but he couldn’t deny that he was interested in how many cameras seemed to be littered about. There were some he didn’t even know about.

“Why would the government want to know about that particular alley?” he asked when Sherlock flicked past a seemingly random view of an alleyway.

“People probably like taking a ‘toilet break’ down there – A lot of new cameras have been set up to catch those types of people. Litterers and defacers and the lark,” Sherlock rumbled in answer.

John laughed, “So your brother has to watch people pissing against a wall? _Such_ a glamorous job.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock huffed with a roll of his eyes. “My brother is not sat in front of the CCTV cameras 24/7. He has lackeys for that. He barely uses them personally. He merely has access to them. – I’m pretty sure he knows the layout of all of them and so only picks specific ones to observe whenever he has the need of them.”

“But someone still has to,” he pointed out, “I wonder if Mycroft gets reports on how many times that wall has been defiled.”

“He _won’t_ get that. That’s not for him to deal with. He’s a Government Official,” Sherlock said with a faint chuckle, obviously imagining Mycroft getting such a report.

“Maybe it depends on who does the defiling,” John noted, pushing himself up a little. “Any near the Houses of Parliament? The Embassy? Canary Wharf?”

Sherlock nodded and brought them up with a few nimble taps and swipes of his fingers, “There’s cameras effectively everywhere.”

He snickered, “Imagine if David Cameron got caught by the paparazzi in one of those.”

“Who?” Sherlock frowned.

“The Prime Minister.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said dismissively.

John rolled his eyes with a grin and relaxed back into Sherlock’s side again, “Is there a particular reason you’ve decided to hack into the CCTV of London this evening?”

“Just checking,” Sherlock told him. “Making sure there aren’t an abundance of them positioned at our flat. Spying on the people spying on us. The usual.” He pointed at the screen when he stopped on one particular view. “This is one of Mycroft’s people. He’s had this person stationed there giving regular updates for quite a while now. – There’s another just down the road too. Annoying really.”

“And he hasn’t thought of putting a camera on the back door?” John asked in mock disappointment and tutted. “For shame.”

“Oh no, he has. He _did_ , in fact. I took it down. Viciously. – He even had some cameras set up in here,” Sherlock said, gesturing at certain corners of the room and then the kitchen. “As well as in the hallway downstairs and even in Mrs Hudson’s flat. I removed each and every one of them.”

John frowned at that, “That man has no sense of privacy.”

“Mycroft would say something pompous about it being for our ‘safety’ and ‘protection.’ Because he’s constantly ‘deeply worried’ about me,” Sherlock mumbled in annoyance.

“I worry about my sister, but I don’t spy on her every move,” he mumbled, crossing his arms across his chest.

Sherlock glanced at him, “What gave you the impression that Mycroft is anything but abnormal?”

He huffed, “True.”

Sherlock went back to the CCTV cameras for another half an hour and then closed his laptop with a soft tap, putting it aside, “Spying on your sister might be quite beneficial to her health,” he said, looking at John. “Make sure she doesn’t choke on her own vomit.”

John glared at him, “ _No_.”

“Means you don’t have to visit her,” Sherlock shrugged. “Could even arrange for someone to go over if an alarm is sounded. Like they do for senile, old people.”

“Weren’t we just talking about how _invasive_ that was?”

“Slightly different though, isn’t it? Your sister is a struggling alcoholic,” Sherlock replied airily.

“I’m not spying on my sister, Sherlock!” John exclaimed firmly, stiffening for a few moments before relaxing again, “Her choices are her own, and she will have to face the consequences of her actions. I’m not going to be any more responsible for her than I already feel obligated to be. She can make her own way.”

“Why go see her then?” Sherlock asked, wrinkling the bridge of his nose. “No point.” He looked at John closely and then shifted beside him, sighing at what he saw and grimacing with awkwardness as he continued. “Although…I suppose I could speak with her?”

John looked at him in surprise, his demeanour softening, and he pulled one of Sherlock’s hands into his, “You do only what you feel comfortable doing. I’m going to visit my sister because I haven’t seen her in _months_ and I want to check on how she’s doing. I might try to nudge her in the right direction, but in the end, it’s her decision to make. You don’t have to dredge up bad memories for her if you’re not comfortable with it.”

Sherlock looked at their hands, “Oh good,” he said with a good-humoured sigh, drumming his fingertips against John’s skin.

Watching the way their hands fitted together, how wonderfully matched they were, John couldn’t help but think of the first time he’d seen Harry hold a girl’s hand in a more-than-friends sort of way, how happy she seemed in that moment, how happy he was that she was happy. And then how heartbroken he had been when their father... He tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand for a moment, and huffed a sigh. He didn’t have to worry about that man any more. He was long gone and scattered to the winds. John had to concentrate on the present, and the present was _good_.

“I’ll get started on those sandwiches, shall I?” he asked, moving so that he was sitting up now.

Sherlock nodded and gazed at him with a gentle squint, lifting John’s hand to push his nose and mouth against his knuckles, breathing deeply, “I want bacon sandwiches.”

“We don’t have any bacon left,” John replied, even as he blushed at the touch. “You can have ham.”

Dropping his head back with a look of extravagant displeasure, Sherlock stroked at John’s palm and then let his hand go, “ _Ham_ ,” he repeated with a sulking twist of his mouth.

He snorted and stood, “Yes, ham.” He walked into the kitchen and searched for the bread. “And maybe some lettuce and mayonnaise. Or would you prefer mustard?”

“Yes,” Sherlock told him, still slumped in a bit of a mope.

“Mustard it is,” John muttered to himself, setting the slices onto a breadboard and collecting ingredients from the fridge and cupboards. Ten minutes later, he had two plates of sandwiches and two mugs with steaming liquid inside. He took the mugs out first; not wanting to risk spilling any of the blood into Sherlock’s tea, and then their sandwiches, passing Sherlock’s to him as he sat.

Sherlock ate silently and flicked annoyingly through the TV channels at an almost rapid speed, only stopping when John snatched the remote from his fingers, “I’m _bored_. Why is there nothing interesting on?”

“Because your bulbous mind won’t stop and just watch something,” John replied, turning back to the news channel and dumping the remote at the far end of the sofa.

“The news is boring!” Sherlock exclaimed and after a while clambered over John’s lap, dropping his sandwich on John’s knee in the process. “Give it back. I’ll find something else.”

“ _Sherlock_!” he exclaimed, picking the sandwich up before it could fall onto the floor, and holding it, and his own, high into the air while the man in question clambered over him.

Sherlock found a documentary on mass murderers and then climbed back to his original place, pushing up to John’s side with one of his legs left draped across John’s thigh, “Good enough,” he said, gesturing for the sandwich back impatiently.

With a roll of his eyes, John handed it to him, “You child.”

“ _Quiet_ ,” Sherlock hushed him, eyes fixed on the TV screen. John chuckled and continued to finish his sandwich, resting a hand on Sherlock’s knee as he ate.

The warmth radiating off Sherlock simultaneously reminded John of the not so distant past and the present. Sherlock had always seemed to ignore personal boundaries and as such had leaned into, and sometimes onto, John many times since their friendship had begun. He had swooped down over John’s shoulder to give a sarcastic or teasing remark on what John was putting on his blog too many times to count. He had grabbed and yanked and dragged John to and fro. He had even walked in on John in the shower. The constant presence of Sherlock was not new to John, but the way in which it was now used was. Now Sherlock purposely invaded John’s space instead of just subconsciously doing so. Everything was going to be different now, even as it remained the same, and it was going to be amazing.

“Did you want any more of that pie then?” John asked once their empty plates had been stacked on the table for a good five minutes.

“Yes,” Sherlock told him, though he didn’t move from his place, and his leg remained hooked over John’s.

“… It’s not going to magically appear on the table you know.”

Sherlock glanced at him and before John could tell him not to, Sherlock inhaled deeply, turned his head toward the living room door, and bellowed, “Mrs Hudson! Bring up more apple pie! – And the cream! More cream!”

John moaned and rested his head against the back of the sofa, covering his eyes with one of his hands, “She’s not a servant, Sherlock!”

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock shouted again after three seconds of nothing. “Apple pie!”

“Stop it!” John complained, trying to push Sherlock’s leg off him, but the man pushed back, “ _Sherlock_!”

Sherlock lifted his hand to shut John up and then grinned when Mrs Hudson’s flat door opened and she came up with the pie, “ _Really_ Sherlock,” she said once she’d stepped into the kitchen. “Must you shout so? – I bet the next-door neighbours heard you!”

“Oh sod the neighbours, Mrs Hudson.”

John moaned again, and turned his head to their landlady, “I’m sorry Mrs Hudson. I would have come down, but…” He gave Sherlock’s leg another push.

Mrs Hudson looked over and blinked, then frowned, waving her hands at Sherlock, “Stop being so irritating and domineering, Sherlock!”

“I’m not. I’m merely comfortable,” Sherlock told her, pointedly tipping his head for her to hurry up.

“That position is highly unattractive,” she went on to say as she cut both John and Sherlock a new slice.

“Don’t make me push you off the sofa,” John muttered to him as Mrs Hudson collected some bowls from the cupboard.

Sherlock lifted his other leg beside the first and quirked his mouth at him, “You wouldn’t.” John twitched an eyebrow at him, a mischievous glint in his eye as he positioned his hands so he could tip the man off him. Quickly gripping the sofa and John’s shoulder, Sherlock clung tightly, “If I’m going, you’re coming with me,” he whispered and John grinned.

“Here you are dears,” Mrs Hudson said, cutting through the moment as she approached with their bowls.

Sherlock took it with a small smile in her direction, “Thank you,” he said quite politely.

“You’re welcome,” she replied with a happy tone, looking between them both with a sparkle in her gaze. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?” Sherlock questioned around his mouthful, waving for her to move aside so he could see the TV. “Stop loitering.”

“How are you feeling John? Better?” she asked him.

“Much, thank you,” he replied with a smile, taking the offered bowl from her, “I’ll be heading back to work tomorrow.”

“Oh that’s good!” she beamed, ignoring Sherlock who rolled his eyes and looked overly irritated. “Early start tomorrow then?”

“Yes,” John agreed, giving Sherlock a nudge. “Back to normal. Or whatever counts as normal anyway.”

Mrs Hudson nodded with a titter of laughter, “Yes, it’s hardly very normal around here is it?”

“Could we _please_ end this tedious small talk?” Sherlock complained.

“I bet you’ve been missed,” Mrs Hudson went on. “I know that I wouldn’t like not seeing my preferred doctor – I only like one specific doctor, you see. He knows everything I’ve been through. Knows all about my hip.”

Sherlock glowered, “Mrs Hudson…”

“Yes, I have,” John nodded, ignoring Sherlock entirely. “And I’m told some of my patients have been complaining.” He looked over to the other man briefly and gave the landlady a knowing smile.

“I bet the other doctors have missed you too,” Mrs Hudson said, still lingering before them.

Sherlock was very faintly pouting now, and he took one huge mouthful of pie, looked Mrs Hudson in the eyes, and motioned for her to sit, “ _Fine_.”

“Oh! Well, I couldn’t possibly intrude,” she told him.

“Ah, good, in that case—”

“But if you _insist_ , I’ll just get myself a slice of pie,” she said, cutting over Sherlock and making her way back to the kitchen, leaving a scowling Sherlock in her wake as John chuckled over his mouthful, and kept his eyes carefully on his bowl.

“What are we watching?” she asked when she came back, giving the TV a glance.

Sherlock sighed, “John and I—”

“ _Oh no_! We can’t watch that while we’re eating, Sherlock!” she told him, taking the remote, and quite nimbly for a woman her age. She sat herself beside John, tickled Sherlock’s feet, which made the man inhale sharply through his nose with a very unmanly squeak and tuck his feet under John’s thigh, and turned the channel to Holby City. “There we are.”

John made a mental note of his sensitivity for later and settled back into the sofa’s cushions to watch, “Thank you again for the pie,” he said, “It’s wonderful. Sherlock almost refused to eat anything else for dinner.”

“You can’t have apple pie for dinner, Sherlock,” she told him with a tut.

Sherlock clenched his toes and shuffled, “ _Yes_ I can.”

“It’s a dessert, Sherlock,” John said, rolling his eyes, “You eat them _after_ something else.”

“I can eat pie whenever I please!”

“ _Hush_ , dear,” Mrs Hudson shushed him, eyes on the TV.

Sherlock glared but quietened down and shifted to curl up beside John tightly, his back up against John’s side as he turned to face away from them and ate. He noisily scraped up the cream with his spoon half way through, making as much noise as possible, and then put the bowl down and focused on his phone.

John just shook his head fondly at his antics and finished his own bowl, stretching out his legs now that Sherlock had released them. Once they had all finished, he collected the bowls and, carefully extricating himself from being Sherlock’s backrest, took them out into the kitchen.

“Would you like some tea, Mrs Hudson?” he asked, already setting out the mugs.

“Oh that would be lovely, thank you.”

“You’re not staying here all night,” Sherlock told her, only for her to smile and reach over, smoothing out his curls.

“Stop being rude, Sherlock,” John called out to him as he dropped the tea bags in each mug and set the water to boil.

“He’s just grumpy because he doesn’t have you all to himself,” Mrs Hudson said.

Sherlock shot her a glare, “I only called you for pie.”

“You’re going to have to learn to share one day,” John told him, but he was smiling as he searched for a tray.

“ _Never_ ,” Sherlock replied.

He huffed and grinned, “Spoiled brat.”

“Just _look_ at that kitchen – Why must you transform it into a science laboratory?” Mrs Hudson complained. “One of these days you’re going to get sick, or get someone else sick.”

“No I won’t,” Sherlock argued.

“We might be getting a mini-fridge,” John explained as he carried in the finished mugs of tea. “So we can keep his experiments and the food separate.”

“That’s a good idea!”

Sherlock turned to frown at her, “I get the big fridge. The small one will be for the food.”

Looking mightily displeased, Mrs Hudson huffed, “Can you not put all your little vials of horrid things in a mini fridge?”

“No!”

John sighed as he put the tray down, and passed each of them their tea before settling down with his own, “I’m counting it as a small victory either way.”

“But John dear, a small fridge won’t hold the correct amount of food needed for two growing men,” she said.

“Yes it will,” Sherlock argued.

Mrs Hudson shook her head, “Oh no.”

“Mrs Hudson, it will be _fine_!” Sherlock grumbled.

“I think you mean ‘growing boy’ and man,” John said taking a sip of his tea, “I’ve already taken over one of the shelves in the main fridge at least.”

Sherlock glowered at John as Mrs Hudson giggled, “Aw, come now. Sherlock is a lovely gentleman – When he wants to be,” she said with a cheeky glance his way.

“Yes, that is true,” John murmured over his mug, giving Sherlock a warm look, and Sherlock blushed and looked away, hiding behind his own mug. John continued to smile into his tea for a minute, letting the TV take over for a bit, before turning back to the landlady. “I really must repay you for what you’ve done these past two weeks. You’ve been a saint for putting up with us.”

“I was worried about you both,” she told him, placing one hand on his arm. “There’s nothing to repay, dear. I just wanted to know you were both okay – I would have done everything again in a heartbeat.”

He smiled at the turn of phrase and nodded, “Still, there must be something I can do. Is your bathroom door still giving you trouble? I could take a look at it for you…”

“Oh! Would you do that?” Mrs Hudson asked. “I was going to get someone in to fix it but if you think you can do it…?”

“Of course,” John nodded, “Perhaps on my next day off, if something doesn’t come up?”

“That would be wonderful!” she beamed, squeezing his bicep happily.

“It’s the least I could do--”

“One of the screws is loose in the top hinge,” Sherlock muttered.

John rolled his eyes, “Well, if it’s something as simple as that, then I can do it now,” he said, playfully rising from his seat as he put his tea on the table. “Where do you keep your toolbox, Mrs Hudson?”

“Don’t do it _now_ ,” Sherlock protested, grasping for John’s hand.

“Yes, it’s all right, love. You don’t have to do it right now,” Mrs Hudson said, eyes on their clasped hands.

John squeezed at his hand, and sat back down again, a triumphant smile on his face, “Oh, alright then.”

Sherlock left their hands together but loosened his grip, and Mrs Hudson smiled slowly and widely, her eyebrows raised and her eyes flicking between them, much to John’s amusement. He felt no awkwardness about Mrs Hudson finding out that his relationship with Sherlock had changed, in fact, he felt quite happy about it, almost proud. Mrs Hudson bit her lip, looking tremendously ecstatic, and turned all her attention to John, gesturing in question and then making a small, gentle peep of delight, pressing her hands to her chest.

John just smiled in return, and shrugged, “It’s been an enlightening day.”

“ _Oh_!” Mrs Hudson started, startling Sherlock somewhat as she lunged toward them both, gathering them up in her arms. “I knew it! I _knew_ you’d work it out in the end! I always thought there was something there between you two, and I was _right_!” She wagged her finger in John’s face. “You always denied it but I saw right through all of that! Yes I did! – Love at first sight, it was!”

John blushed furiously at the accusation and ducked his head, “Yes, well, uh…”

She embraced them both again, “The way Sherlock looked at you the first time was enough to—”

“All right, less of that now,” Sherlock said in a murmuring grumble, leaning back and releasing John’s hand with a blush of his own.

John looked at him in surprise, “I _really_ am an idiot,” he murmured.

Sherlock’s blush got darker and he avoided eye contact with the two of them, pursing his mouth in embarrassment, “Isn’t it time you left, Mrs Hudson?”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you look at anyone else in the same way,” she went on to a cringing Sherlock with a wink and another beaming smile. “So, was it today? Who confessed to who?”

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock whinged.

“It was more of a… mutual… slow… dawning of realisation,” John explained, rubbing at the back of his head.

“Did you kiss?” she asked.

Sherlock got up to his feet, moved around and reached to help her up by her elbow, “ _Out_ ,” he told her, leading her to the living room door.

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson sighed, looking amused and very impish, “Let me at least know how romantic it was—”

“Go away.”

“Thanks again for the pie, Mrs Hudson,” John said as he stood too, helping Sherlock lead her to the door. “We’ll give you back the pot in the morning.”

“I suppose you _really_ won’t be needing that second bedroom anymore?” Mrs Hudson asked with a smirk, tickled by the way Sherlock’s ears flushed red. “I’ll have to think of another use for it.”

“ _Good night_ , Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said firmly, letting her go only to be tugged into yet another hug by her. She pulled John in for another hug too and then made her way downstairs.

John watched after her for a few moments, and then huffed out a breath, “From the beginning?”

Sherlock scowled and walked back into the living room, “She’s deluded – Do you forget that she was married to a murderer? She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Like most people,” he ranted. “Watches far too many of those soaps of hers.”

John hummed, feeling his face heat and his heart soar, and closed the door behind him, following behind Sherlock. Whether it was true or not, and if Sherlock would tell him or keep it a secret, it didn’t matter. It was happening now, and that was what counted.

“I want more pie,” Sherlock muttered and went into the kitchen. John smirked at the statement, and sat back down on the sofa again, taking his unfinished tea in hand.

Sherlock picked at and ate what John guessed equalled to another handful of pie, and then left to go to the toilet five minutes later, where he washed his sticky hands and brushed his teeth. He lingered after that, shifting his weight, and then returned to the living room, changing the channel of the TV as he sat down in his chair.

“Will you be sleeping tonight?” John asked eventually, having relaxed into the warmth that remained on the patch where Sherlock had sat before.

“…Yes,” Sherlock replied in a mutter.

He nodded, stood, and stretched before walking over to stand next to Sherlock’s chair, “Good,” he said, lowering himself to sit on the armrest and winding his arm down the back, “Good.”

“Wake me before you leave for work in the morning,” Sherlock told him, eyes glued to the screen but head tipping noticeably back against John’s arm. It was plainly obvious that Sherlock wasn’t really paying any attention to what was currently showing.

John leaned forward, and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head, “Of course I will.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed briefly at the contact, “Shall I puncture myself again?” he asked, waving his plaster covered finger about. “Just to make sure everything’s dandy in the teeth department?”

“As much as I hate you hurting yourself, it might be prudent,” he agreed, then grinned. “Though I have to admit, hearing you say ‘dandy’ is pretty funny.”

“What? Why?” Sherlock asked, looking at him. “What’s funny about the way I say dandy?”

He shrugged, “It’s not exactly a word I would expect you to say is all.”

Sherlock arched his eyebrow and smiled at John, getting up to clean and then press the scalpel to his finger, piercing the slowly scabbing over wound, releasing a bloom of scent, “I used to read the Dandy comic – My father collected them.”

John wiggled his nose at the sudden explosion on his senses, but kept his eyes on Sherlock’s as he ran his tongue over his teeth and smiled, “You were a fan of Desperate Dan and Korky the Cat then?”

“My father _definitely_ was,” Sherlock said, pushing to produce a bit more blood. “The Dandy and The Beano were things he used to automatically reach for when Mycroft and I were children – Used to put on different voices for every character. Was horrendously silly.”

John laughed, rubbing momentarily at his lip to keep his fangs still, “My teacher used to do that when I was in Primary school.”

Sherlock left his bleeding finger open to the air for a moment or two longer, and then cleaned the scalpel before wandering into the bathroom for a new plaster. He came back, still in the process of wrapping his finger back up, and plonked himself back down on his chair.

John leaned into him a little and smiled, “I preferred The Adventures of Tintin and The Chronicles of Narnia though. Much more interesting.”

“Treasure Island was my favourite book,” Sherlock told him almost instinctively.

“Oh?” John asked, intrigued. “Did you imagine yourself as a young Jim Hawkins, or maybe a Long John Silver?”

Sherlock leaned his chin on his fist and looked at John sidelong, “Take a guess.”

John frowned in thought, purposely taking some time to hum and haw over the decision, before grinning, “Being a law abiding cabin boy would be too boring for you.”

Sherlock brightened, smirking broadly, pleased with John’s deduction, “So true,” he said approvingly.

He chuckled, “So, did young Pirate Captain Sherlock Holmes go on many adventures?”

“But of course,” Sherlock told him with a haughty and exultant expression. “Lots and lots. The best kind of adventures.”

John grinned at the joyful look, “Sounds wonderful.”

“Drove Mycroft mad,” Sherlock said with another smirk, “so yes, _wonderful_.” He reached for John after a few seconds and urged him awkwardly down into the chair.

Ending up a little squished between Sherlock and the armrest, John twisted so that his legs were over his lap and his back was to the arm, “I always wanted to be some grand warrior, like a knight.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Trust you to want that,” he scoffed in amusement. “Rescuing damsels and fighting dragons?”

“Protecting the kingdom from evil,” he agreed with a nod, “Going on quests, travelling far away…”

“Would you consider pirates to be evil?” Sherlock asked him with some entertainment, resting his hands on John’s knees.

“Hm,” John hummed, “Greedy. Dangerous. Determined. But not necessarily, no.”

Sherlock smiled, “Good,” he laughed, resting his head back with a relaxed lidding of his eyes.

John smiled at him in return, entwining their hands on his knee as he dropped his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, “It’s an honour to serve under you, Captain,” he whispered.

Sherlock huffed, still smiling, and stroked and traced the shapes of John’s fingernails with a flush, “Technically, _accurately_ , you’re the Captain here,” he said with a low chuckle.

He laughed, “Technically, but I think I’ve been more of a saw-bones than anything else lately.”

Turning his nose into John’s hair, Sherlock stayed in place for several moments, breathing steadily, “I’d be quite a rubbish pirate,” he disclosed in a lulling mumble.

John hummed, his eyes falling shut as Sherlock’s breath brushed against him, “I’m too greedy to be a knight,” he revealed, turning his head so that their noses brushed.

“ _You_? Greedy?” Sherlock snorted with a small disbelieving frown, focusing on John’s eyes. “Since when have you been greedy?”

Blinking, he grinned, “With how I spend my time. I spend a lot of it trying to be happy. I spend a lot of it with _you_.”

“Not by choice,” Sherlock told him good-humouredly. “And trying to be happy? You have to try? – That’s very disconcerting.” He bumped the tips of their noses together.

“Well, it is significantly easier with you around,” John smiled.

“Charmer,” Sherlock said blushing pink and returning the smile with a faint roll of his eyes, still caressing John’s fingers. John sighed, and leaned forward to plant a chaste kiss on his lips, something Sherlock returned lightly as his smile then curled larger, his heart racing. “Want to know why I’d make a rubbish pirate?”

“Why?” John asked.

“I suffer with terrible seasickness,” Sherlock whispered and then snorted with laughter.

John chuckled, “You do?”

“It’s been a while since I was on a boat or ship of any kind, but, yes. When I was younger it was really quite bad,” Sherlock told him.

“Oh no!” John snorted. “That must have put a damper on things.”

Sherlock nodded, “Yes. That and, um, other things,” he told him, clearing his throat and pushing their noses together again.

He frowned a little at the slight hesitation he heard, but decided not to ask. Not yet. “Well, it became quite clear that I couldn’t become a knight fairly early on. I had to set my sights a little lower.”

“Come off it,” Sherlock said with a puff of breath, “you wanted to travel and go on quests, yes? You’ve essentially already done that. You went to Afghanistan and served your country. Protected people from evil. Saved people from dying. – You _are_ a knight.”

John laughed, “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder and shifted on the chair happily, “It’s close enough, at any rate.”

“Well all you’d need is a skull and cross bones on that great big coat of yours and you could be the pirate of crime scenes, stealing them from the likes of Anderson and Donovan.”

“Mm… And I should buy a parrot,” he said after some thought in which he gazed at John in hilarity.

John smirked, “You could teach it to say things like ‘idiot’ and ‘shut up Anderson’.”

“Oh, _definitely_ ,” Sherlock nodded, visibly angling for another kiss as he cocked his head aside and bumped their noses once more.

John met him half way with a pleased sigh, and pulled back to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s, “…Why is the TV still on?”

“Background noise mainly it seems,” Sherlock told him and leaned away to glance at it, checking the time as he began flicking through the channels again. He went through them so fast, that at one point, the TV seemed to struggle to keep up, frustrating Sherlock further.

John just looked over at it in amusement, “We could put on the radio instead?” he suggested.

“God no,” Sherlock snorted, finding nothing at all of interest and finally turning the thing off.

“Not into the radio dramas then I take it,” he said.

Sherlock shot him a look and propped his head back on the chair, rubbing the calluses on John’s hands softly, and then following the lines of his palms. He seemed to immensely enjoy the feel, weight and overall presence of John’s hands in his, and couldn’t seem to stop touching or caressing them with his own. Not that John could blame him; the feeling was definitely returned. Sherlock’s hands were a treasure trove of secrets and gold. Strong, nimble, controlled, and perfect in every way. Tilting closer, he rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder again, allowing him the exploration of his hands.

Pressing their hands together, palm against palm, Sherlock admired the differences in their skin, in their finger length and shape, and the contour of their nails as if truly mesmerised by them. Slowly, he stroked his way up and over John’s wrist, and along his forearm to his elbow, touching the soft, delicate skin there in a light tickling, which he later took up and over John’s bicep. He stopped there for a moment, stroking with his entire hand, and then pushed his cheek to John’s head.

“I’m assuming you wore a jumper when Lestrade visited,” he murmured, “which would do a lot to hide your gained muscle mass – However, it could be quite tricky to hide it with a shirt and jacket. Have you got anything planned for your response if people ask?”

John frowned at that, eyes on Sherlock’s hand as it moved along his arm, “The white coat I wear sometimes should help cover a lot, but generally speaking… That I’ve been working out recently? I really don’t know how to explain this kind of muscle growth beyond steroids, and the people who would ask know that I wouldn’t do something like that.”

“Hm – Sarah will notice,” Sherlock told him, skimming his fingers down the back of John’s arm.

He exhaled in agreement, “Well, it’s getting colder now, and my office is usually a bit chilly. I could keep my jumper on during the day.”

Sherlock took hold of John’s hand again, “I’m surprised Mrs Hudson didn’t say anything. She noticed. Hard not to when you’re wearing your bedclothes,” he said.

John groaned and burrowed deeper into Sherlock’s shoulder, “This is all so…. _Impossible_!”

“Mm. I _know_ ,” Sherlock mumbled, rubbing John’s knuckles contentedly and shifting to have John a little closer and against his chest.

“I’m probably going to have to bring a flask of blood with me tomorrow as well,” he moaned into Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock huffed, “Unquestionably,” he agreed. “Might just be easier to stay home…”

“No,” John said, shaking his head, “I’m _doing_ this. I’m not going to let it keep me from doing something I love.”

“…You can’t like it _that_ much? – Most of your patients are idiots with the sniffles,” Sherlock groused.

He chuckled, “True. It might not be what I trained to do, but I get to help people.” He smiled and kissed the skin next to his mouth, which just so happened to be Sherlock’s neck. “Keeping people alive, even in the smallest of ways, is always fulfilling.”

With a wavering breath of pleasure, Sherlock reached up to touch John’s jaw and cheek, “What we do is better,” he said with a small grin. “ _Way_ more fulfilling.”

“Maybe,” John agreed, “but it doesn’t pay the bills.”

“Sometimes it does,” Sherlock said, glancing at him and cupping his nape, affectionately raked his hand through the short hair there.

John shivered at the attention and nuzzled at Sherlock’s jaw, “’Sometimes’ is not enough.”

Sherlock blinked languidly and smiled at him, his heart picking up again with a surge. He played with John’s hair and swiped at the back of his ear, then stroked down his throat, over his shoulder, and back down his arm to entangle their hands. Leaning into the touch, John gave Sherlock’s cheek an almost sleepy grin, “You’re making it very difficult to concentrate.”

Letting out a quiet laugh, Sherlock began tickling John’s palms with feather-light touches, “My ingenious plan is working,” he joked under his breath.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he mumbled, “You _are_ evil.” Smirking widely, Sherlock placed one of John’s hands against his own chest, and took the other to entwine their fingers again.

Suddenly, John yawned, and he scrunched his face in annoyance, “Maybe you should take on more cases. That way we might actually be able to live off the funds, and I won’t have to work at the clinic any more.”

“I only take the interesting cases. I have a rating system,” Sherlock told him, stifling his own yawn. “I’d have to be really quite desperate to do anything else.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to keep going to work,” John smiled, pulling himself up and out of Sherlock’s lap, though keeping their hands entwined, and using it to pull at his… well, yes, at _his_ Sherlock. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

“Yawns are contagious, doesn’t mean I’m tired,” Sherlock grumbled as he followed him up, still looking languid and a little rumpled. John huffed in reply, and started leading the way back to Sherlock’s bedroom, turning off lights on the way and making a note to do some washing in the morning. Once they reached the bed, John turned on the bedside lamp and climbed in, still keeping their hands together, their fingers entangled.

Shuffling after him, Sherlock tugged the covers aside to slip beneath them, able to arrange both the pillows and the blankets with one hand, “Here,” he said, pulling John’s phone from somewhere and dropping it onto the mattress between them. “You always set an alarm.” He said it in a knowing and almost proud tone, showing off as he burrowed down in his bed.

“Thanks,” John smiled, quickly setting the alarm for the morning and putting the phone aside as he joined Sherlock under the covers. Curling into his side, he clutched Sherlock’s hand over his and wrapped his other arm over him in a protective, possessive gesture, moving his fingers up and down Sherlock’s arm as he stared into his face.

Sherlock reached to turn off the lamp before moving a few inches closer, reaching up diffidently with his free hand to rest it over John’s waist, “You’ll…always be here then?” Sherlock asked quietly with the faintest of pauses, peering through the gloom at John.

Instead of answering with words, John leaned forward, nuzzling at Sherlock’s nose, and kissed him, bringing his hand up to cradle his cheek. It was long, soft, and soothing, and he only pulled back once Sherlock had relaxed. Nodding gently, delighted with the answer, Sherlock brushed their legs together as he shifted position and pushed just the tiniest bit nearer. Being so comfortably and cosily close was heavenly and only seemed to strength their new bond as Sherlock stroked up John’s side, reached to touch his face with a look of pure affection, and then curled his fingers into John’s top tightly, holding him like he thought John would vanish if he didn’t.

Stroking at Sherlock’s face with his thumb, John pulled his head closer so that their brows were touching, and lowered his hand to rest on his arm, “Goodnight Sherlock.”

Sherlock clutched at him harder, squeezing their entwined hands, “Goodnight John,” he whispered.

After a few moments of Sherlock holding onto him like his life depended on it, tense and faintly shaking, John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s back and pulled him closer, “I’ll be _right_ here,” he muttered in return.

“I…” Sherlock started, seeming to falter a moment and clear his throat, stroking John’s knuckles as he all but snuggled against John’s chest. “I’m…glad.”

“Don’t be afraid to wake me if you need me,” he said, squeezing at Sherlock’s fingers, even as his eyes started sliding shut. Sherlock’s heartbeat was what sent him asleep in the end. It was steady and strong and pleasantly familiar. It almost seemed to vibrate through him as he drifted into slumber, surrounded by Sherlock’s scent and held at by Sherlock’s fingers.


	10. Chapter 10

_“Come away, John,” Sherlock whispered to him, his hands gripping tight as he felt his body tipping forwards again, like it always did, but the arms were holding him up this time. “Come away.”_  
_“I can’t,” he replied, leaning his head into Sherlock’s, “It’s a part of me now.”_  
_Something wet and warm dribbled from his mouth, and the ground sunk beneath him, bringing him down, and dragging Sherlock with him._  
_“Sherlock,” he gasped, “You have to let go.”_  
_“I’m not going anywhere,” he replied, and the arms only wrapped tighter around him, even as the blood dribbled and dripped around them, “You are John Watson. You will always be John Watson.”_  
_He closed his eyes as the first drop of blood touched his fingers, climbing over his skin and up his arm. “John Watson,” he said to himself, “I am John Watson,” the blood had reached his shoulder now, “I am John Watson,” his neck, “I am John Watson…”_  
_Something covered his mouth – a hand – and the blood stopped, suddenly rolling off him, but leaving his body stained red. He blinked open his eyes, and he was sat at the kitchen table. Sherlock was clutching at him from behind still, and the hand moved to bury itself in his hair._  
_“You’re safe here.”_  
_John turned his head, clutching at his hand, and kissed his palm, looking up into Sherlock’s eyes with a smile. “I know.”  
_ _Sherlock smiled, leaned down, and…_

* * *

John woke to the incessant beeping and buzzing of his phone, groaning in annoyance at the interruption, but swung his arm over blindly to turn it off. Once it was silent, he wiped a hand over his face, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and turned back over in the bed. Sherlock was strangely still asleep beside him, unaware of the alarm that had pierced the room seconds before. He was lying on his stomach, with his arm stretched between them, his middle and ring fingers caught in John’s top, one leg exposed from the covers, and his face mashed into the pillow. It was obvious to John that he still had a lot more sleep to catch up on, and John was sure that if he left him where he was, he’d still be sleeping when John returned later in the day. But he’d made him a promise, and he was a man of his word.

Rolling closer, John threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, brushing it from his brow and behind his ear, then leaned in to kiss him awake, kissing from his warm temple to his jaw.

It was only after the third press of John’s lips that Sherlock began to stir and he stretched with a huff, clenching his toes, frowning and turning his head up at John blearily, “Hm?”

Finally able to reach his lips, John captured them for a brief second, and smiled at him, “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Sherlock replied gruffly, beaming at him with a sleepy sort of expression, and then leaned up to push his face into the crook of John’s neck to inhale slow and deep.

John chuckled lightly and wound his arms around his bedmate, holding him close, “I promised I’d wake you,” he explained quietly, pressing yet another kiss at Sherlock’s temple.

“You did indeed,” Sherlock murmured in appreciation, pushing his nose and mouth to just under John’s jaw with a soft sigh, and clinging to him as he shifted position and pressed them chest to toe.

He grinned, clutching him back, “I do have to get up at some point,” John warned.

Sherlock complained low in his throat with a husky grumble and reclined his head back to look at John, then the slither of light coming in through the curtains, coming to the palpable conclusion that John didn’t have much time to waste. He pulled a face in dissatisfaction and dissent for one fleeting moment, and touched John’s face and head with trailing fingers. It was almost odd to think that they never used to do anything like this before. It seemed exceedingly normal for them to be so close, with Sherlock searching and skimming the skin of John’s cheek and forehead. Once again John was stunned at how quickly things had changed.

“You are amazing,” he whispered, in awe at how perfect everything felt, stroking at Sherlock’s scalp in slow, small circles.

“Don’t forget ‘brilliant’ and ‘extraordinary,’” Sherlock replied with an unfurling grin, his heart already beginning to pound hard and fast. He hesitated a second and then moved in to kiss John’s chin and the corner of his mouth. “Kiss me before you leave…”

John smirked, “Bossy,” he said, leaning in to kiss him anyway, much to Sherlock’s satisfaction, before pulling away to get ready. “I won’t leave here without saying a proper goodbye.”

Sherlock let him go and flopped back down on the bed, one leg still outside of the covers, “It’s not a goodbye – More like a ‘see you later,’” he said watching John from his lashes lazily. “Looking forward to a day filled with the mundane illnesses of the uneducated?”

“Yes, actually,” he replied, gathering his towel from the floor and heading towards the bathroom, “as crazy as I’m sure that sounds to you.”

“ _Very_ crazy,” Sherlock nodded with a gentle scoff.

John just smiled, and stepped into the bathroom. He showered and shaved in quick succession, removing any trace of growing stubble on his chin with a steady hand, and headed up the stairs to change. When he reached his room, he winced at the sight of his broken cabinet. He’d forgotten about that.

Finding clothes that fit wasn’t too difficult, as most of what he’d worn before were a little stretchy, but he’d somehow managed to hide a pair of trousers that used to be a size or two too big in the back of one of the drawers and quickly changed. He probably had Harry to thank for that.

By the time he reached the kitchen, Sherlock was already up and waiting for him. He was draped in his dressing gown and put down a flask, a cup of tea, and a slice of toast for John, his own slice gripped in his other hand, “Here,” he mumbled, in the middle of making himself a coffee.

John looked down at the breakfast in surprise, “And I didn’t even have to ask…”

“Shut up,” Sherlock replied, smiling at John as he bit into his own toast, smearing his top lip with jam.

He chuckled and walked over to him, kissing the jam off his lip, “Thank you,” he said, and then went to sit down and enjoy his surprise meal.

Sherlock flushed in satisfaction and finished his coffee, joining John at the table, “Don’t forget to cover your neck with a bandage,” he reminded him, touching his foot to John’s.

John nodded as he swallowed his mouthful, “As soon as I’ve finished breakfast.” He pushed his feet a little closer, taking a sip of his tea.

“You’ll have to forcefully assure her that she doesn’t need to check it. Because she’ll want to,” Sherlock said, stroking his toes over the top of John’s foot. “And, of course, you’ll need to make up some rubbish about your sister.”

“Well I don’t really have to, do I?” John replied, “Her most recent girlfriend broke up with her and she went on a downward spiral.”

Sherlock blinked and then conceded with a shrug, taking a gulp of coffee, “Mm.”

A minute passed in companionable silence, each of them drinking their respective drinks and eating their toast for a bit, “I’m going to have to go shopping soon,” John said eventually, “I need more clothes that actually fit.”

“I hope that wasn’t your way of asking me to go clothes shopping with you? Because I’m telling you right now, I shan’t be doing that,” Sherlock told him with a grin, rubbing their legs together.

John laughed, “No, no, just that I might be a little late getting home one day or something.”

Sherlock inclined his head, “More jumpers inbound?” he teased.

“My jumpers are perfectly fine,” he defended, running a hand over the black and white stripes covering his upper body.

Sherlock smirked at John and pushed the rest of his toast into his mouth in one go, “Some of them are horrendous,” he said.

“You touch them, you die,” John told him, though he couldn’t help the smirk that was pulling at the corner of his lips.

Huffing in amusement, Sherlock reached across and ran his fingers up John’s sleeve with a rebellious expression, “Like this?”

One of John’s brows rose, “Step _carefully_.”

In response, Sherlock walked his index finger and middle finger up John’s arm with a playfulness and impishness that was instantly infectious, “You love this one, don’t you? – Your little burglar jumper.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s finger and rose out of his seat with a grin, “I warned you.”

“You’re too noble and ‘knightly’ to kill me,” Sherlock said with a deep, bubbling laugh.

He growled spiritedly, stepped around the table, Sherlock’s finger still in his grasp, and circled around to stand behind him, wrapping an arm around his chest as he leaned to whisper into his ear, “But I’m not a knight. I’m a soldier.”

Sherlock turned his head aside to look at John, “What are you going to do?” he asked in entertainment, tilting back into him. “You’re not very intimidating in that jumper.”

John just grinned. He pulled Sherlock up to his feet in an instant, the chair clattering back as he dragged him over to the counter, pushing him against it. John then shoved his nose into Sherlock’s neck and inhaled, deeply, pushing closer with a hum as he nuzzled at his pulse, then moved his nose under Sherlock’s chin, up over his lips, and then up to his nose. John grinned over his mouth, exhaled with a sound of enjoyment, and then pulled away, went back to his seat, and continued sipping at his tea.

Sherlock blinked after him, clutching at the counter with a hot blush on his face and his heart thundering. His legs were visibly buckling as he tried to straighten up and compose himself, his body trembling, and he cleared his throat, touched his neck, and clumsily picked up his chair to sit back down. Sherlock’s breathing was a little ragged and he tried to speak several times, before looking to give up. John smirked at him over his mug, feeling thoroughly satisfied, and blushing harder at the look Sherlock slowly finished his coffee, hiding behind it and ducking his head a little, though he was coyly smiling whenever John caught his gaze.

Finishing his tea, John stood again and made his way to the bathroom, “Don’t forget to breathe, Sherlock!” he cried over his shoulder, and pulled open the bathroom cabinet.

“Shut up,” Sherlock grumbled softly, low and almost silent for most, but something John easily and very quickly picked up.

Chuckling to himself, John picked the large plasters out of a box and placed one over where the bite used to be. When he went back, Sherlock had straightened up and looked a lot more controlled than previously, however his face was still a little pink. He looked at John with something etched across his face and hidden in his eyes, something that John thought looked like apprehension or anxiousness.

John raised a brow in question, picking up the flask and his coat from the back of the door, “You alright there?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said shortly with an expressionless tone, though he shifted and then got up, leaning against the table a moment before walking over to him. “Are you sure you wish to go back?”

“Positive,” John nodded, pulling on the coat, then dragging Sherlock down by his dressing gown and kissing him with a rush of endorphins.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John as he increased the surge of pressure in the kiss with passion, pulling away afterward to quickly and tenderly scatter soft kisses against John’s lips, “Don’t be an idiot,” he told him, resting their brows together before he stepped back.

“I know,” John said, holding the flask up in a salute, but then his expression became more serious, “I’ll be careful.”

Nodding, Sherlock took a deep, silent breath in and shot him a tight smile, “All right then.”

He smiled at him in return, resting a lingering hand on his arm as he made his way to the door, checking his pockets for his wallet, phone and keys before opening it, “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yes. Tonight,” Sherlock repeated with a nod, looking very vaguely forlorn and restless from where he was watching John from the top step.

Sending him one last wave, ignoring the pang in his chest and the overwhelming need to rush back into his arms, John stepped out onto the street, closing the door behind him. The streets of London had become background noise to him now, only the occasional flare of sound or smell giving him trouble now and then, but he took a moment to just stand there and make sure he was ready before he started walking down the street. He wasn’t quite ready to risk the Underground just yet, so he decided a brisk jog would probably do the trick. He might arrive a little later than usual, but that still gave him time to spare, and it meant he would work off some of the building energy.

The shoes he’d decided on weren’t the best for the job, but half an hour later he turned up at the clinic, gasping slightly, but not too overheated. Perhaps he should have taken his coat off before he started.

“Morning John!” The receptionist, Anne, greeted, her eyes trailing over him quick but noticeable. Or noticeable to John. “Nice to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back,” he replied, signing in with a smile.

“Mrs Francis has missed you,” Anne said, giving him a knowing look.

John grinned. “Not too loudly I hope.”

Anne laughed and shooed him away. “Welcome back.” He waved at her and made his way to his office.

“John!” Sarah called, stopping him halfway and putting a friendly hand on his shoulder, her eyes running over him, her head tilting as she noticed the difference in his body structure. She didn’t say anything, however, and her inspection of him barely lasted two seconds before she looked into his eyes and grinned. “So good to see you! How are you fairing with the bite wound? Healing all right? – And your sister, I hope she’s better? Dreadful business. Just dreadful.”

“Yeah, she’s… yeah,” John replied. “Bad break up.”

Sarah rubbed his arm, “All okay now though?”

“Should be,” he agreed, folding his arms, an instinctive motion to brush off her touch. “I might have to check on her again though. Just in case.”

“Oh. Yes, well, let me know,” Sarah told him, looking him over again, her heart changing pace and her pupils dilating. “I’ll let you get on then. – You’ve got quite the barrage of patients who are just dying to see you again—Not _literally_ , of course. Or I sincerely hope not.”

John grinned and walked backwards a few steps, nose itching from Sarah’s perfume, “I’ve already been told about Mrs Francis.”

“Ah yes,” Sarah laughed. “Anne told you then? Good. You needed warning.”

He winced, “That bad?”

“ _Very_.”

“That’s going to be fun,” John said with a sigh, backing further down the hallway, “I’d better prepare then.”

“Mm – Is…everything okay?” Sarah asked in bemusement, as she looked him over a third time.

He blinked, “Yeah, fine.”

She squinted at him and then smiled, “Shall I take a look at your wound later today? Just to make sure everything is all right?”

“It’s healing up pretty well actually,” he replied, waving her off, “I’m mostly wearing the plaster to keep the patients from worrying too much.”

“Some patients might worry even more because of the plaster,” Sarah snorted, turning away. “Well, it’s nice to have you back. I’ll see you later.”

“Later,” he called after her, making his way to his office, at long last.

Stepping into the confines of the familiar room, John switched on his computer and checked his schedule for the day. As expected, it was pretty full, but he still had fifteen minutes before he had his first patient, so he took the time to drink some of the contents of his flask. It was deliciously warm, the pork flavour lingering on his tongue, and just a slight aftertaste of… cinnamon and apple?

“Sherlock,” he groaned, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

**I can taste it, you know - JW**

**Bit promiscuous that. SH**

**And you’re welcome. SH**

John rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but grin.

**Not much I hope - JW**

**What did I taste like? SH**

He chuckled.

**Apple pie – JW**

**Delicious. SH**

**Thank you for reminding me that we still have some left. SH**

**Don’t be surprised if it’s gone when you get back. SH**

**Greedy bastard – JW**

John put his phone down with a shake of his head and prepared for his first patient.

**All right. I’ll save you a piece, but that’s all you’re getting. SH**

**Thanks – JW**

**Working now. I’ll talk more at lunch – JW**

Turning his phone on silent, he tucked it away in a drawer and set the file on Susan Parker on the desk in front of him, and waited for her to knock.  
Sarah wasn’t exaggerating about his patients missing him, and although it was nice the first three to four times they asked after his health, wasting valuable time inquiring over the plaster and his overall wellbeing when they should really be explaining to him what was wrong, John was getting very tired of it all, very quickly.

He appreciated the concern, he did, but he was there to help them and so was getting highly frustrated when nothing seemed to steer them away from their close inspection of his face and throat. By the time lunchtime came around, John was mentally exhausted and overly irritated, and the flood and burst of flavour from the mixed blood did little to calm and sooth him.

Pulling his phone out of his drawer, he made his way towards the cafeteria.

**Why did I think this was a good idea? - JW**

**People are terribly annoying, aren’t they? SH**

**Away for a week and suddenly everyone’s your mother – JW**

John stepped into line, picking up a sandwich and an apple from the poor selection.

**That’s what you get for becoming a GP. SH**

He snorted, waving a quick apology at the man behind the till as he paid and made his way to an empty table.

**I like helping people. They’ll get over it soon – JW**

**You hope. SH**

**People are ogling you, you know. SH**

John looked up and found that people were, indeed, ‘ogling him’, though they quickly looked away. He moved his gaze to the camera in the corner of the room and gave it an ‘are you serious?’ look.

**Spying on me now? Mycroft would be proud - JW**

**I wouldn’t call it spying as such. I’m merely keeping an eye on you. Making sure Mycroft isn’t. Would you rather I watch over you or him? SH**

**Keep telling yourself that – JW**

He put the phone down and finally turned to his food.

**You love it really. SH**

John just smirked at the phone, knowing Sherlock could see it, and bit down on his sandwich at long last. Now that Sherlock had pointed it out, he could feel the eyes on him as he ate, and he made sure to finish up in quick order, leaving before Sarah could arrive, and thus avoiding even more questions. For now at least anyway. He spent the rest of his lunch break fetching some tea from the staff room and relaxing in his office, checking through his emails.  
Harry’s messages were as convoluted as he’d expected, talking about the need to have Frankie back, and a boiling hatred, cursing ‘that worthless bitch’ to hell. They were rather colourful in some places, but it was clear that it was going to be some time before she was anywhere near sober.

Once lunch was over, John continued to see patients, most of whom continued to ask about his health and the plaster on his neck. There was a welcome reprieve when a worried mother brought her three-year-old in because he’d managed to catch a bad cold, neither of them were regulars at this clinic, and were visiting family for a few weeks. The mother glanced at the plaster on his neck but didn’t ask about it and didn’t look back, her attention solely on her child and the reassuring words John was telling her. By the time the day was over, he was just about done with it all, and signed out with a flourish.

“Have a good day?” Sarah called behind him, stalling him on his way to the door. “I didn’t see you at lunch? Took refuge in your office again did you?”

He paused in his bid for freedom and turned to her with a tired smile, “You weren’t kidding earlier.”

“Afraid not,” she smiled, her eyes drifting down his body as she took a few steps closer. “Good to be back though? Despite all the worried and chattering regulars?”

John nodded, frowning a little at her wandering eyes. He’d noticed it earlier too, and then all the people at lunch… “I missed it, strangely enough.”

“Nothing strange about it,” Sarah told him. “Plus, you know, you’ve not had a case with Sherlock for a bit, so you’re bound to want something to fill the space up, eh?”

He chuckled, “Yeah, that’s true.” She didn’t even know the half of it.

“…Have you…been working out?” Sarah asked him at last, gesturing to him with one of her hands. “It’s just…you look good. _Very_ good! Different.”

“Uh,” he looked down at himself, stunned at the blatant question, “I… yeah. Yes, I have.”

“Recently?” she inquired, moving closer and tilting her head. “I must not have noticed before—You look great!” She smirked at him, turning to suddenly include the receptionist. “Doesn’t he Anne? Look great?”

“You look _real_ fine, John,” Anne said, giving him her own appreciative look.

John took an uncomfortable step back, “Uh, thanks?” He took another step. “I’m just… gunna go now.”

Sarah lifted her eyes from where she was admiring his legs, “Hm? – Oh. Right. Yeah, sorry! I’m just glad you look so well since the last time I saw you,” she said. “I’ve been worried about you, you know? What with the bite wound, then your sister, and the weird texts…I thought you were…well, I was just concerned. But seeing you today, I suppose my concerns were for nothing, because you look just fab.”

“Yeah, great.” John smiled nervously at her and backed away some more. “I’ll uh… see you tomorrow.” And, without waiting for a reply, he walked out the doors and ran down the road, only stopping once the clinic was no longer in sight. Moving over to stand next to the nearest building, he took a sip from his flask, and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

**Is it really that obvious? – JW**

**I did tell you. I had hoped it wouldn’t be much of a problem, but Sarah is quite perceptive and your tight fitting clothes do little to hide your new body structure. SH**

**Plus, Sarah obviously still has feelings for you. SH**

**That one at the desk also fancies you. SH**

**As do two other doctors. SH**

**You’re broader and more muscular physique has only heightened their crush on you. SH**

John groaned, leaning his head back on the wall behind him and looking at the sky, “Why me?” With a sigh, he looked down again, and continued on his way home, again deciding jogging would be a good idea (and taking off his coat this time).

He was perhaps four streets away when a flash of red across the street caught his eye. A woman – perhaps in her mid-forties – with blonde hair and a long navy blue coat was walking in the same direction as he was, busy looking through some notes… and fiddling with a red beaded necklace.  
Suddenly, all he could think of was Jessica, the poor girl who’d been infected before him, who Sherlock found, those red beads, the ones that haunted his dreams.

Blinking, John found he’d been staring at the same spot for a while, and the woman was nowhere to be found. Confused by the sudden flash of memory, he crossed the road, stood in the same spot he’d seen her, and inhaled. The first thing that hit him was the pollution in the air, smoke from a nearby cigarette, rubbish from the alley, but then there was an undercurrent of lavender, latex… and balsa wood. He had his phone out in a second, dialling Sherlock’s number with a quick flick of his thumb.

Sherlock picked up almost straight away, “What are you doing?” Sherlock asked. “What happened?”

“The woman who was here, with the long blue coat, did you see where she went?”

“Yes. Why? Who was she?”

“She’s wearing a red beaded necklace.” He inhaled, just to be sure, taking in all the same scents, sampling them on his tongue, at the back of his throat. “And she smells of balsa wood.”

On the other end Sherlock was silent, taking a breath, another, and then spoke lowly, “There are perhaps hundreds of red beaded necklaces, John. Thousands even. And in England alone,” he told him, but sighed in reflection. “Keep going the direction you were going on that street and turn right, then left, and then right again.”

John followed his directions, keeping the phone up to his ear, “I think it was her mum,” he tried to explain after taking the left turn.

“Her biological mother? – But what does that matter if she is?” Sherlock asked him. “John, we basically kept her daughter on ice in our bath, only to cut her up and stick her in the fridge. I don’t think we should be talking to her—In any case, Jessica clearly thought her mother was _dead_ , or something to that effect, so it’s clear that the mother wanted nothing to do with her. Much like her father later decided when he kicked her to the kerb.”

“She smelled like latex though!” John hissed as he turned right, “The kind you get in disposable gloves. And she was looking through notes.” He looked around the alley for any sign of her, but saw nothing. Instead, he inhaled again, and followed the scent to a door. Leaning his ear against it, he listened intently, eyes closed, breathing deep through his nose. “I can hear… a lock. There’s a door opening and… I can smell chemicals; albumin, glycine, thiomersal… so much balsa wood…”

Although Sherlock wasn’t speaking in return, John could hear him breathing and typing rapidly on the other end, could hear his footsteps as he moved and the faint creak of leather as he put on his shoes. The sounds interfered for a moment, crossing over with what he heard on the other side of the door he leant against, though he was soon able to separate them, “John,” Sherlock finally mumbled. “John, I want you to walk backwards out of the alley. Right now. Do _not_ turn around.”

Frowning in concern, John opened his eyes, “Sherlock?”

“It’s the alley,” Sherlock told him. “The one we saw on CCTV. The alley with the single, lone camera directed at it – The camera is behind you. Do _not_ turn around.”

He tensed immediately, spine going ramrod straight, as the implications settled in his mind, and he started backing out of the alley, one step at a time. Strangely, his thoughts cut to the fact that he seemed to be doing this a lot today. That, and that it felt like this was taking forever.

There was a whirl and a humming at his back, and Sherlock cursed and seemed to frantically begin typing again, “Just keep going. _Don’t_ stop. Keep on going backwards.”

“What’s happening?” John asked, having to fight his instincts to keep from turning his head. He had to keep going, no stopping.

“It’s following you,” Sherlock told him, still typing and fidgeting. “Just keep going until I say otherwise, and keep a listen out for that woman.”

He swallowed, “Right.” Stupid. He’d walked right into this. He hadn’t been careful enough, hadn’t heard her at the computer, so intent on the scents. On Sherlock. He stepped back again, and again, and again. The only sounds from that room beyond the door now coming from a tapping of keys, the hum of a screen, and the woman’s steady breath and heartbeat.

The camera seemed to whirl and follow with each and every move he made, and Sherlock became more frantic the closer John seemed to get to it, “Turn aside. Turn _left_. The camera is over your right shoulder, as you should probably hear,” he told John.

“Mm-hm,” he hummed, side stepping so he continued to show his back to the camera. A growl of frustration caught his attention briefly, and then something hit what sounded like a cage, and there were several tiny squeaks. Mice. Of _course_ she had mice. He was facing the wall now, and still the camera followed as he made his circle around it.

“ _Stupid_ piece of—” Sherlock was all but punching the keys of his laptop, and he sighed sharply, tried for a few more of John’s steps, and then let out a breathless laugh of triumph as the camera behind John abruptly stopped. “Right, _go_!”

He didn’t have to be told twice. John ran down the road, somehow managing to keep himself from all out sprinting, and ended up back at the same place he’d spotted her, leaning against the wall and breathing deeply as the adrenalin rushed through him, “ _Sherlock_?”

“I’ll be there in a few moments,” Sherlock told him and then hung up without another word.

John looked at his phone in bewilderment before pocketing it and pulling his coat back on. As he waited, he worked on getting his breathing back under control again, focusing on his own heartbeat and the cracks in the pavement by his feet. He tried not to think of the reasons, the questions, the inevitable outcomes, but it was difficult. Very difficult. What had that been? Who was she? What was that place? What did this mean for him, for them?

Sherlock came racing over to him minutes later, as if magically appearing from thin air, his coat flying out behind him and his face pinched in concern. He accessed John with his rapt and searching gaze seconds before he reached him, but still reached out and took hold of his arm, pulling him a step or two closer while he panted and turned his attention to where John had gone with a deep frown. He didn’t speak, only stared off in interest, his hand remaining anchored to John, almost tightly clinging. The firmness of his grasp got harder as the seconds ticked by in the raising tension.

“It’s her,” John said, bringing his hand up to cover Sherlock’s, even as he brought his focus back down to continually stare at the pavement, “It’s _all_ her. She did this.”

“What are you not telling me?” Sherlock queried, turning to him and then nudging him roughly. “ _Look_ at me.”

John drew his gaze up and into Sherlock’s flitting eyes, “I could _smell_ her. _Jessica_.” He swallowed. “She was there. _Vanilla_. That was her smell. It was in that _room_.”

Sherlock blinked and frowned, and went to speak until he noticed a camera nearby begin to move toward them and jolted into sudden movement. He dragged John down a side street quickly, pressing to the wall with him. Another camera moved, and then another, and another, and Sherlock cursed, took John’s hand, and led him down a supposedly dead end, littered with rubbish. He gaped at it, as if just realising exactly where he was, and swallowed thickly. John didn’t have to ask what was wrong; he could still smell the lingering scent of decay, and Jessica, in the grooves of the floor. Sherlock had unknowingly taken them to the last place the girl ever saw. To her deathbed. To where Sherlock had ultimately found her.

“Do you think she knows?” John whispered, clutching tightly to Sherlock’s hand.

“I’m…not sure,” Sherlock admitted. “I would say that no, she doesn’t. She certainly didn’t act like a grieving mother. – So either she has no idea about the fate of her daughter, or she…just doesn’t care.” He looked at John and then took hold of his shoulder with his free hand. “What else? What _else_ did you smell? Did you hear? Tell me _everything_.”

He blinked, and focused on Sherlock’s collar as he thought, “Mice. She had a cage of mice next to her computer. Sodium hydroxide, luminol, uh… lavender. She smelled of lavender. There was a… a slight scent of vanilla, and blood. Old blood. Two weeks old at least. Antiseptic, medical alcohol… I think I heard the hum of a fridge, and… there were a lot of humming noises actually. And… and latex.” He nodded, looking back up into Sherlock’s face. “She sounded angry.”

Sherlock’s eye twitched and he inclined his head, his fingers flexing and shifting against John’s, “…I see,” he murmured, flicking his gaze away and seeming to withdraw, his brow furrowing and smoothing intermittently as his eyes skimmed to and fro.

John put the flask he was still holding in his pocket and reached out to hold onto Sherlock’s other arm, watching him carefully as he disappeared into his mind, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious around them. He could only wait. Wait and hope and sooth. Like he’d always done.

After a few moments, Sherlock looked at a spot on the floor again temporarily, and then walked them to a corner to peek around, “I _need_ to get in,” he told John with a whisper. “I need to see what she’s doing – We could take the roof…but…” He stroked John’s knuckles. “ _Who’s_ watching her? Who’s protecting her? They must know what she’s doing—What _is_ she doing?” He scowled deeply, both in thought and in anger.

“So, the camera wasn’t hers?” John asked, “But I thought she was watching it…?”

“If she was, she would have come out to you or at least shouted and demanded that you leave her property,” Sherlock said, tilting his head. “You said she sounded angry, but did she say anything? Mutter anything about you being nearby or show any indication that it was your presence she was angry about?” Before John could answer Sherlock inhaled and continued. “And then there are the other cameras.”

Right, the other cameras… “She just hit the mouse cage.”

“What you smelt, what you heard, it’s all very familiar, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock asked him, lifting his eyebrows in expectance and giving a small, short smile. He still looked rather angry but also extremely antsy, and he was trembling in John’s grasp, thrumming with energy and adrenaline.

John nodded, grasping back at his arms, “It’s like the kitchen.” He ran his thumb over Sherlock’s tense muscles.

Sherlock’s mouth pressed and contorted tensely for a split second, “And the kitchen is like a laboratory – Whatever she’s doing in there, is _big_ , and I assume, it’s not exactly legal either,” he said. “The cameras, they are there to protect her and her work.”

“So how are we going to get in there without being seen?” he asked. “Surely they would have covered all the entrances.”

“I’m _thinking_ ,” Sherlock snapped, looking away with a very pinched expression, gripping and flexing his fingers.

John continued to stroke his thumbs over his arms, unperturbed by the harshness, and looked up at the sky between the gaps of the two buildings, releasing a shaky breath. He stepped closer into Sherlock’s arms after a few moments, and managed to pull a hand up to caress his cheek, “It’s too dangerous, Sherlock. We can’t go in there.”

“I _need_ to know what she’s doing and _why_ she’s doing it,” Sherlock told him with a low, heated voice, speaking through his teeth. “She nearly created an _epidemic_!”

“Which means we don’t know what could be in there!” he hissed in return, “What do you _think_ will happen if we just… waltz in there, uninvited? That she’ll ask us for tea? Invite us in for a chat? _No_! She’ll start panicking! She’ll try to defend herself with whatever she has on hand, and that just so happens to be a lot of unstable, unknown chemicals that resulted in this!” He motioned to himself.

Sherlock’s entire face crumpled for a very quick, brief moment, and he avoided eye contact for an extremely long time, looking off into the distance with narrowed eyes, “ _Fine_. I’ll wait for her to leave,” he intoned without emotion.

“No, there is no ‘I’,” John told him. “ _We_ do this together, or not at all.” He sucked at his lower lip, eyes scanning Sherlock’s face fleetingly. “I won’t let you face this alone.”

“You have work,” Sherlock muttered, still not looking at him.

“I do, but Sarah knows I will drop everything if you message me. If it’s important.” He smoothed his thumb over his cheek again. “This is _important_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock glanced at him at last, his gaze was soft, and he clenched his jaw, turning to peer back where they’d come, unable to properly see if the cameras were still angled and looking for them, “Can you hear anything?” he asked.

Looking off to the side a little, John allowed his eyes to become unfocussed as he listened attentively. He could hear footsteps, people walking along the roads, unhurried and hurried alike, going home from a long day at work. He could hear their heartbeats, but quickly pushed past that, listening for the woman he had followed.

Nothing. He heard the nuances of people’s breath, but not hers. She wasn’t there. But there was an electronic whirring, and a slight squeak of rotating metal, “The cameras are still moving.”

Sherlock pulled out his phone, typed something, and then grabbed for John’s wrist, “Let’s go,” he muttered, pulling them further into the dead end, which, as John had earlier deduced, apparently wasn’t so after all because Sherlock moved an overloaded bin aside to expose a large hole in the bricked wall. The smell of death and decaying rubbish was the strongest there. Giving another look at his phone, Sherlock motioned for John to go through first.

Still pulling back into himself, John crouched through it without protest, and into another alleyway, waiting for Sherlock to follow. He had to cover his nose to keep the stench out, but they did not linger long, and Sherlock continued to lead them through the back ways until they reached their home once again.

Sherlock bolted for his laptop and immediately began trying to hack into the cameras again, as well as doing something in another window that John wasn’t entirely sure about, “I can’t _believe_ it was all _that_ close!” he growled under his breath, hitting the table to vent his frustrations.

John made sure to remove his coat and deposit his things on the side, then came to stand behind Sherlock, resting his hands on his shoulders, “We weren’t to know. How could we have? Jess could have come from _anywhere_. She had days between being infected and… succumbing.”

“I had people _looking_!” Sherlock told him. “I had eyes _everywhere_. Yet not _once_ did I notice a single thing.” He rubbed his face with his right, trembling, hand and then continued the relentless drumming of his fingers against the keyboard. “I _knew_ that it was somewhere in the vicinity. I knew that much. I calculated the size of the area by taking into account where Jessica lived, where she attacked you, and where she died. I knew it was somewhere between those points. I had people looking. Checking abandoned buildings. Checking people. And got _nothing_!”

John frowned, “You think someone’s been hiding her? The same person who has the cameras?”

“Yes…and no. I got nothing because to anyone else, she was a normal looking woman going about her normal day, and returning to a normal looking building,” Sherlock admitted with a wince. “She was hiding in plain sight, if anything.”

“It’s not your fault,” John said, leaning down to hug at him, resting his head against his, “We had no information to go on. We were stuck in the flat. How were we to know any of this?” He kissed Sherlock’s temple. “We know now, and we can work with that. Focus on the here and now, not the could have beens.”

“It was stupid to let you follow her,” Sherlock muttered and gripped a handful of his curls when he was evidently unable to view the alley again. He glared and tried to work past it, getting more and more agitated and excessively enraged.

John huffed, adjusted his grip around Sherlock’s middle, and stepped backward, dragging Sherlock away from the laptop, chair and all, “ _Stop_.”

“Let _go_!” Sherlock shouted, instantly struggling. “John, _get off_!”

“ _No_ ,” he replied, and keeping Sherlock sat firmly in the chair, he circled around him and sat on his lap, taking his face in hand. “You _need_ to stop. Take a step back.”

“You’re _wasting time_!” Sherlock snarled, breathing heavily, expression twisted in his rage. “They _saw_ you! You were on camera. They don’t particularly need to see your face to find out who you are if they really, really wanted to! – If they have the access to CCTV, have the skills necessary to tap into _that_ amount of cameras, then it won’t take them long to shift through previous footage to find you!”

“Then they’ll find me,” John told him in a calm tone. “It’s my fault. I was the one who followed her, and I would have even if you hadn’t told me where she’d gone.” He leaned forward and kissed him, deeply, caressing his cheeks, then pulled back a few seconds later, their noses touching. “This is _not_ your fault.”

Sherlock blinked, calmed by John’s kiss and the intimacy he provided, “They _can’t_ find you. If they find you…” he trailed off and frowned in brief distress.

“Sh, sh,” John hushed, leaning into Sherlock now as he pulled him close, arms looped under his arm pits and fingers in his hair. “Everything will be okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

Slumping into John, Sherlock allowed himself to be soothed, and clutched at John’s back, pushing his nose into John’s cheek, “No. You won’t. Not if you let me make sure of it,” he said.

“Together or nothing,” John repeated, “You will not work yourself into the ground. I won’t let you. Focus on the task, not how it affects us. You have to detach yourself from it, or it will bury you.”

Sherlock leaned back to look at him and then started shoving at his shoulders, “Get off,” he intoned.

John let him push for a few seconds, but then sighed and stood, “I know you know that. You’ve said as much time and time again. But this is still new--”

Sherlock snarled at him as he too got to his feet, glaring down at John, “You want me to just focus on the work like normal, like all of this is just another case? Not care about you nor anyone or anything else? – _Fine_. Go away. I don’t want you _near_ me. You put me off. You _distract_ me. And I _don’t_ need you. If you want me to detach myself then that means detaching myself from _you_.” His words were cold and his tone cruel, and he turned his back on John to lean over his laptop and take out his phone.

John flinched at the words, but gritted his teeth against them, knowing Sherlock was only reacting, and that his detachment would get things done. He hated that things had to be like this, but if it got this thing done then he was willing to go along with it.

He stepped up beside him, hand hovering over Sherlock’s shoulder before deciding to give it a quick squeeze, “You might not need me, but I need you, and I _will_ wait for you.” He pulled away, collecting his laptop and phone, moving towards the kitchen door, where he paused. “I will _always_ be here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock, of course, callously ignored him, blocking John out as he focused just on the work he was doing before him and nothing more. Sighing, John left and settled in Sherlock’s bedroom, booting up his computer while keeping an ear out for Sherlock’s activities.

After about an hour of useless browsing and deleting spam emails, John decided that dinner was a good idea. Knowing Sherlock, he probably wasn’t going to eat anything until he’d managed to solve this puzzle, or sleep for that matter, but he could attempt to leave the genius some tea.

It was only a simple thing – pasta and sauce – but filling enough, and Sherlock remained leaned over the laptop, deep in concentration. John made him some tea as he made his own, but when he made to get some milk, he found himself blinking at a quarter of an apple pie.  
He smirked. Sherlock had saved him some after all.

John emptied the pie dish into two bowls, setting one in the fridge again as he dug into his desert, sending Sherlock a smile (not that he saw it). Once he’d finished, he washed the dishes, gave Sherlock another look, and took the pie dish downstairs.

Mrs Hudson beamed when she saw him and grasped him by the arm, tugging him into her flat, “How are you two lovebirds today then?” she asked single-mindedly, clearly angling for some healthy, loved up gossip.

“Uh, okay,” John replied, stumbling a little and holding up the dish, “I brought this back.”

“He missed you something rotten today,” Mrs Hudson told him as she took the dish back with barely a glance in its direction. “I could tell. – Oh! It’s so _good_ to see Sherlock and you together at last! After all this waiting!”

“It wasn’t really that long,” he insisted, already feeling the beginning of a _long_ conversation ahead, “Really.”

“I could tell, you know,” Mrs Hudson said, steering him to a chair, “the instant I met you and saw you and him together. The way he’d _look_ at you. The way he acted around you. And you to him! – I was very disappointed when nothing came of it.”

“Well, obviously that isn’t the case any more,” John grinned, but then it faded into a frown. “What do you mean, ‘the way he acted’?”

Mrs Hudson put the dish away and then smiled, “Didn’t you notice how differently he acted and interacted with you? I suppose it was very difficult to spot if you didn’t know him from before or if you weren’t looking, but…well, let’s just say it was very noticeable he liked you. He’d never really cared what anyone else said or thought, you see, but with you, he was thoroughly interested and amused with things like that from you. You meant something to him even back then – And he was very… accommodating with you as well. Yes. I think that’s the right word,” she told him. “He would correct himself for you and would constantly try to impress you—Oh how he _loves_ the way you praise him!”

John blushed, “That was just for me? I thought it was more than just me… What about Lestrade? You?”

“It’s not the same,” she said. “He does like some people, don’t get me wrong. There are a small amount of us that he has taken a liking to, and can put up with, but it’s different with you. – He doesn’t exactly accommodate for me. He barely even listens.” She huffed with a small giggle. “With the Inspector, well, Sherlock definitely respects him in a lot of ways, it’s true, but the spark he has with you just isn’t there.”

“Spark…” he muttered, feeling a little dazed, “He doesn’t listen to me all the time you know.”

“He listens to you a lot more than anyone else, dear,” Mrs Hudson grinned. “He loves you. He might have always loved you – I honestly believe in love at first sight, and I think that happened. I _really_ do.”

John snorted, “I doubt he saw me as anything more than an interesting puzzle that didn’t tell him to go away after he’d solved it. To start with at least.”

“You surprise him a lot. He hasn’t solved anything,” Mrs Hudson said. “You’re an interesting person, John.”

“Well that’s a first,” he said, rubbing the back of his head, “I’ve only ever been ‘average’, ‘normal’ or ‘boring’. Now I’m suddenly ‘interesting’?”

Mrs Hudson frowned and then rolled her eyes, smiling at him, “You’re so modest.”

John just frowned in reply, and leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his chin, “You think I’m interesting?”

“Why of course! You’re not just a doctor, but also an army doctor! You’ve seen and done so many things, so many _noble_ things! – If you were average and normal and boring, you wouldn’t have done any of those. And now, now you’ve gone on even more adventures! Solving murders and such like. It’s fascinating and amazing!—And it’s not just Sherlock who does all of that stuff. You’re with him. You help him so much. You both bounce of each other. You have a remarkable knack for stimulating his mind, his genius, to even greater lengths!”

“But… I’m just…” He shrugged. “You know what, I’m not going to question it. If you say it’s true, it must be.”

Mrs Hudson nodded happily, “Good. Now. Tell me how it finally came about? You and Sherlock.”

He smirked, “Believe it or not, it was a series of nightmares.”

“Nightmares?” she repeated in shock, leaning toward him in concern.

“Oh, just the usual,” John waved her off, “War stuff, you know. Sherlock decided to start appearing in the middle of the Afghanistan desert though. And then the flat decided to replace the desert, and… well, I ended up telling Sherlock about it, and one thing led to another.”

“Have you kissed?” she asked, looking mischievous and amusingly prying.

John just laughed at that, shaking his head in surprise, “You gossip monger you.”

Mrs Hudson shrugged daintily, “I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?” she grinned.

“If you want,” he grinned, leaning forward again.

“Was it romantic? Your first kiss?” she asked.

He shook his head, “I’m saying nothing.”

“Was it saucy?” she gasped with a glint in her eyes. “Oh! _Come on_ , tell me!”

“It was a kiss,” he shrugged, “It happened, it will probably happen again.”

Mrs Hudson beamed at him and clapped her hands, cooing over the mental image she had provided herself, “I wonder how long it’s been since lovely Sherlock kissed anyone – And I mean proper kisses, not the soft kisses he presses to my cheek, of course.”

“Too long,” John mused, looking up at the ceiling where he could hear Sherlock’s heartbeat. Shaking himself after a moment, he rose from his seat and offered Mrs Hudson a smile. “I should get back up there. I’ve got a bit of catching up to do for work.”

“Oh of course,” Mrs Hudson said, reaching for his arm and squeezing it, brimming with happiness. “Give Sherlock a kiss for me.”

“Psh,” he grinned, giving her a peck on the cheek and heading for the door. “Goodnight, Mrs Hudson.”

“Goodnight John,” she replied with another squeeze of his arm and wrist, fingers warm and delicate.

He left her flat with a smile, and headed back up the stairs. Sherlock was still paying avid attention to whatever it was that was on his screen when he returned, and he sighed, knowing it would be a long time before he returned his full attention to the world. Instead, he decided he would work from Sherlock’s – their – room, and leave him be. And so, after collecting his phone charger, John gave Sherlock a kiss on his cheek as a goodnight, and headed down the hall.

Sherlock didn’t respond verbally but his heart stuttered fleetingly, letting John know that he had noticed and even shifted attention. John smiled slightly at this, but remained silent, and closed the bedroom door behind him.

He worked for several hours after that, making his way through the rest of the emails he had been forced to ignore and catching up on some of the medical documents that Sarah had sent him. However, probably due to the fact that he was in the bedroom rather than the living room, he found himself becoming tired much sooner than usual, and fell asleep a little after eleven.


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning, the alarm woke him before he was given a chance to dream, and he woke up alone. The bed was empty save for him, and there was no sign that Sherlock had even been there. Turning the alarm off with a groan, he got up and got ready to go to work.  
After his shower and shave, he stepped into the kitchen, not entirely sure what to expect.

It was empty and untouched, and in the living room Sherlock was arranged over the sofa in a languid, bohemian sprawl, hands together under his chin, and was breathing steadily, his heartbeat stable and calm.

John frowned at the sight, surprised he was not still frantically typing away at his keyboard, “Any luck?” he ended up asking as he put the bread in the toaster.

As the norm with Sherlock lying or sitting with his hands in that position, he did not reply. His eyes were roaming and flitting beneath his eyelids, causing his lashes to flutter against his cheeks, but he didn’t move an inch. His expression unreadable.

John sighed, not really surprised, but a little disappointed that a repeat of the previous morning was not forthcoming. Not one to linger on such thoughts, John continued to prepare for the day in silence, making Sherlock a cup of tea for when he returned (he was pleased to see the one he’d made the previous evening was mostly finished), and a flask for himself, taking the time to heat the contents in a measuring jug before pouring it back in.

Once he’d finished his breakfast and his first mug of the day, he set Sherlock’s tea on the coffee table, and brushed his lips against his brow, “I’ll see you after work, Sherlock,” he whispered, and, gathering his things and his coat, exited the flat.

Slightly uneasily, John looked up and around for the closest CCTV, edging his way past it as he skipped the tube again and began first a brisk walk, and then a jog, toward work. He felt a bit strange about going to work after what had happened the night before, but if Sherlock was relaxed and confident enough to lie on the sofa like that, surely he’d done something to rectify the problem? Perhaps found and deleted all footage of John ever following after that woman? The problem wasn’t completely solved, of course. That’s why Sherlock was in deep thought. Yet John still kept his eyes and ears on the cameras he past, hoping that Sherlock hadn’t actually wanted to talk to John before he went, but merely distracted himself and let time run away with him.

It was some time later, when he was perhaps no more than half a dozen roads away from the clinic, that there was a sudden sting in his neck, and he brought his hand up to swat at it… only, it wasn’t a bug. He stared at the dart between his fingers for several moments – several moments too long – and tried to reach for his phone, but already his fingers were trembling, and it clattered to the floor as he staggered sideways into the wall. His coat and the flask fell next as everything became sluggish and muffled. His eyes became heavier, and heavier, and the last thing he saw as he slipped down the wall, was a figure dressed in black.

When he dragged himself back into consciousness, everything felt heavy and he could barely move his head or his limbs. He felt confused and vertiginous and had an extremely dry mouth. After a few seconds he tried to move his tongue, swallow, and speak however was only able to emit a small, garbled, whimpering sound from his throat. The moment the noise escape was the moment he realised that his senses were very dulled, as it was almost as if he were hearing things from underwater. There were different levels of rumbling sounds around him, that he gathered moments later were in fact voices, as well as a barrage of deep, rhythmic, thumps. Trying to concentrate, John forced himself to focus, to pull himself out of the dense fog that was keeping him lax and befuddled, and slowly recognised one of the voices.

“Sh… Sher…?” he somehow managed to whisper, his gaze moving about the light grey mass that was around him, focussing on a tall dark blob that was flanked by two others. There were a lot of shapes and blurs, and the floor he was seated on felt decidedly unstable. Something was keeping him upright though. Something that tugged him backwards as he lolled forwards. He blinked sluggishly over his shoulder, and found two more blurs – ones he recognised as armed men – standing and holding him straight while his wrists were held by something strong.

There were more rumbles of voices. One of them laughed. A shrill, manic giggle. John tried harder to concentrate and suddenly, his ears popped, and the world came rushing back in surround sound technicolour. He blinked rapidly at the bubbles and spots that distorted his sight. His head hurt, his muscles ached and felt unresponsive, his eyes heavy, but he could hear again, and the blurred masses were beginning to form into solid shapes.  
Yes, the tall figure was Sherlock; he could see his coat and curls, and a man he’d come to notice just off to the left looked familiar too, but he couldn’t place him.

“Sher… lock?” he asked again, a little louder this time.

“Aren’t you going to answer him?” The man on the left drawled in a tilting accent and a mocking and unpleasant tone. “He’s asking for you. _Calling_ for you.” The man suddenly lunged toward John, filling his vision and grinning a sick and twisted sort of smile, his dark eyes wide and intensely staring. He gripped John’s chin with hard, digging fingers, cutting into the skin of John’s cheeks with his nails. “Poor puppy dog. – So confused. So helpless.”

He tried to pull away, but all he could do was twist his head and growl. The fingers dug in harder, “Remember me now, do you? – No?” he asked in amusement, moving his mouth to John’s ear, choking John with his scent and presence. “Gottle o’ geer.”

John’s eyes widened with his gasp, the remembered weight of a semtex vest heavy on his shoulders, the cloying smell of chlorine infesting his thoughts, even as laundered clothes and blood invaded his senses, “Mori-arty,” he muttered, trying again to pull away from his hand, yet still feeling too sluggish to do anything more than tip his head away.

“Miss me?” Jim whispered, the slick sound of his grin getting wider dauntingly loud.

“ _Stop it_.” Sherlock swiftly uttered, voice loud and deep and only very faintly wavering. “I already agreed. There’s no need to—”

“But it’s fun!” Jim exclaimed, letting John go to step back and turn to face Sherlock. “And I love watching you _squirm_.”

John began to fall over again, but the hand on his shoulder pulled him up and his shoulders were pulled at an odd angle by the thing at his wrists, making him hiss. Agreed? Agreed to what? Why was he here? Why was _either_ of them here? This wasn’t making any sense, and his drug-addled mind was making it difficult to think. Sherlock. Sherlock, what was going on?

“As _fascinating_ as all this is,” a new voice intoned – female, a little raspy – from somewhere behind Sherlock, “I have work I should be doing.”

“No one’s stopping you,” Jim replied, his tone sharp and his expression sharper. He abruptly shot the woman a smile; something that spoke of murderous intent, and casually strolled over to her. He lowered his voice to a taunting, cruel whisper. “Must I remind you, _again_ , of how it is you got all of this wondrous equipment of yours in the first place? Hm? – Shall I give away how much you begged me for it? How _pitiful_ you were? How you said you’d do _anything_ if just for the chance to create something beautiful?” The smile was instantly gone and he grabbed her by the throat, slamming her into a wall. “Something, which you have so far _failed_ to deliver! Speak to me again in that tone, and I’ll cut out your slimy, yellow tongue.” During the confrontation, Sherlock stared at John, his face giving away nothing though his eyes were wet and his heart was racing.

John ignored the whimper that the woman made, and the way the red beads around her neck swung as she stepped away and bowed her head, in favour of trying to decipher the look in Sherlock’s eyes. He’d seen it before. Recently. But what…Guilt. It was guilt. Sherlock felt guilty about something.

“What… what did… Sh’lock?” he asked.

Sherlock looked down and then lifted his chin a fraction as Jim turned to almost press up against his side, “You’d think he’d get at least a _little_ smarter,” Jim huffed in mock disappointment, before he smirked. “Should you tell him? Or shall I? – It _is_ tempting. And he does look so downtrodden.” Jim sardonically stuck out his bottom lip at John and then gave both John and Sherlock a searching look as he walked back.

Why? Why did he feel guilty? It wasn’t his…John’s eyes widened. Oh, but it was. It _was_ his fault. After everything he’d said, all those lectures about being careful, the _idiot_ went and got himself dropped in the deep end, and he’d dragged him into it too.

Jim beamed at him, “ _Oh_! Figured it out, have you Johnny-boy?”

“I didn’t know—” Sherlock started but Jim cut him off by laughing and turning on his heel to glance between them again.

“Oh it was _glorious_! The surprise on your face!” Jim said giddily while Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he pressed his lips together.

John looked away, trying to grasp at the betrayal. Intentional or not, Sherlock had brought this on them, not once, but twice now throwing them at this madman’s mercy. Hundreds of questions built in his head, swirling around in a hurricane of chaos and confusion and agony. Only one rose to his lips.

“ _Why_?”

Sherlock didn’t answer him and Jim’s amusement grew, “Take him away,” Jim said after the silence had dragged on for too long, gesturing to the men surrounding John with a brief motion of his head. Sherlock looked fleetingly panicked and tensed, almost reaching out, but stopped himself and stared at John silently instead.

The men at his sides dragged him to his feet, or tried to anyway, considering he wasn’t able to hold his own weight, and dragged him away. John, despite the pain it caused him, kept his eyes on Sherlock for as long as he could, until a set of doors closed behind him, blocking the repentant man from his sight.

Expecting to be taken to the other side of the building, he was surprised when the men dumped him in a cage in the middle of the next room. It wasn’t more than a meter squared, and the walls were made of thick, interlocking bars, and a mesh that let off a slight, whiny buzz. There were holes and patches where there wasn’t any mesh, but John could feel the hairs on his body stand on end. An accidental brush of his hand against the wall confirmed his suspicions; the cage was electrified, and it was a high voltage.

Unable to move much still, John managed to pull himself into the centre of the cage, and looked around. The two men were there, both pointing rifles at crippling spots on his person, keeping a close eye on his every movement. Behind the cage was a seat, complete with straps and sharp edges, a tray next to it, which must have been a variety of medical tools that had probably been altered in some way to make everything more painful. There were various devices set against the walls, and the floor was a cold tile. It was clean, it stank of bleach, and there was a cold, bright light that made everything shine ridiculously bright.

It felt like such a cliché, but it didn’t make it any less terrifying. Sherlock had made a deal. A deal involving him, obviously, but what? It wouldn’t have involved handing him over to be experimented on (which is clearly what was going to happen anyway), he’d been too distraught at even the mere thought of it before. That woman… she’d said something about ‘work’. And those beads…He inhaled, the bleach scratching at his nostrils, but there was also the hidden scent of balsa wood, just beneath the surface.  
Balsa wood…He groaned. Damn that idiot. He’d gone after her on his own, just like he’d told him not to. Why had he expected anything else?

Suddenly, the double doors opened, and a woman of strong build that held the scent of iron, sweat and blood entered, giving him a wicked grin,

“Ah,” she said, locking the door behind her, “You must be John.” John watched her carefully as she stepped closer, her boots clicking loudly on the floor as she removed her long coat. “My name is Alice. I’m going to be your host during your stay.” She put the coat on a hook on the wall, and clasped her hands in front of her, eyes wild with excitement. “We’re going to have _so_ much fun.” John automatically tried to back away from her, but ended up shocking himself against the electrified mesh.

She was handed a folder and she took exaggerated eagerness in flipping through its pages, tilting her head with eyes that grew darker the wider her pupils got in obvious enthusiasm. She strolled outside the cage John was in, thumbing certain things, humming and laughing and even showing the stoic men aiming at John a page or two, as if sharing with them a rather entertaining novel. They didn’t react, of course, but that didn’t seem to affect her and she continued to look through the folder for another few moments before she put it down with a graceful extending of her arm, and turned another manic, stretching grin at him.

“ _So_ much to do,” she told him with a short, girlish laugh, wrinkling her nose playfully. Looking through things lining the tray, she picked up one and showed it to him. It was a Liston knife used in meticulous amputations and she let the light hit it, blinding him with the glint. “Boys, I think we need to make our guest more comfy,” ‘Alice’ almost sighed, moving over to the chair and watching the light shine off the blade in wonder and awe.

A switch was pulled, and the electricity running through the cage cut off. The door to the cage was opened, and John was pulled out by one of the men as the other kept his gun aimed at him, and he was dumped, almost bonelessly, into the seat. He tried to move, but everything was still too detached, even as he felt the edge of the arm digging into his side.

“No…” he muttered, moving his head to the side, but Alice just tutted at him again, and started pulling on long gloves. The guard, meanwhile, pulled at his arms, strapping them into position with a series of straps and metal bars that curved over his shoulders, elbows and wrists.

“Hush now John,” she said, giving him a put upon look, “You’ll make me feel unappreciated!” The guard tightened more straps and bars over his legs, and one across his forehead. Once he’d finished, she took a step back, and Alice smiled at his work. “Oh well done! You look nice and comfortable there John. Although…” She reached for his jumper and pulled at it with a wrinkled nose. “No, no, no, this _won’t_ do at all.”

Singing under her breath, something off tune and haunting, she cut it off him, making neat work of it. She cut it as if she were cutting flesh, making precise and mimicking cuts to it as if she were opening the torso of a corpse. Pulling the tattered material away, she set to work on unbuttoning his shirt, eyes locked and unblinking at the exposed, naked skin of his chest. Smoothing one gloved hand from collarbone to navel, she admired his muscle structure in a way that made John instantly sick. Still singing, she walked her fingers up, measuring the length of his torso, and then locked gazes with him jarringly.

“Am I your first?” she whispered, voice shaking with elation as she brought the Liston knife up to John’s cheek. “I _so_ hope I am.”

He shuddered, tried to move, although still his body remained unresponsive, and now that he’d been strapped to the chair, it made things even more impossible to move.

“John!” she scolded, bringing the knife down in a quick, harsh movement that sliced through his face, “Don’t be _rude_!”

John blinked in surprise, but did nothing more than gasp at the pain, already feeling an itch in his cheek as it knitted itself back together, leaving only a thin trail of blood behind. Alice, of course, watched it fascination, her eyes sparkling in a horrifying look of joyful eagerness and want, “Oh now that is _beautiful_!” she cried, bringing the knife up again, this time slicing through his nose. He inhaled blood and coughed a little, but it didn’t disturb her from her delight. She stepped back from him, giggling wildly. “John. _John_! What a special boy you are!” She came back to him again as his nose finished healing, looking over him. “ _Such_ a special boy.” Her fingers traced over his cheek, running down his neck and over his chest, finally coming to a stop at his abdomen. “Bet you can’t guess what my favourite comic is.”

Twirling the knife in her fingers, she traced it over him, much as she had with her fingers, occasionally scratching him a little on the way down, until she reached her other hand. She tracked it over his skin, scratching and scoring, giving him a devilish look, but then she sighed, and stepped back.

She shook her head. “Now, I can’t do that yet. We don’t know each other well enough!” She licked her lips again. “But I know a few games we can play.”

Whether she was sticking to what was asked of her from the folder or making it up as she went along, John didn’t know, but she started by cutting every inch of skin she could see. Small cuts that stung and healed quickly. She sang and hummed and giggled as she went, happy to see John’s skin stained crimson. Once the small cuts where done, she made them bigger, deeper, slicing into muscle and then down to bone. Amazingly she missed tendons and ligaments, knowing where they were with a surgeon’s knowledge.

He didn’t know how much time passed this way, but, slowly, surely, he started to regain control of his muscles. However, as soon as he started testing his movements, twitching his fingers and wiggling his toes, Alice pouted at him, as though he’d just interrupted her tea party.

“Oh John, what did you have to do that for?” she asked him, “Now we have to cut our game _short_!” She put the knife down on the table, and picked up a syringe with a grin. “But that’s okay. We get to start _all_ over again tomorrow!” She giggled as she stuck the needle into his neck. Whatever it was that was in the needle made him feel the same way the dart had outside of the clinic, so it had to be the same thing, but that was all he was able to think before he fell into a thick darkness.

**Author's Note:**

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